


Shadow King

by Shauna (Quickening)



Category: Fairytale - Fandom, Original - Fandom, inspired by Labyrinth & Beauty and the Beast
Genre: F/M, Gabriella Quinn, Isolese, Michaela Quinn - Freeform, Shadow King - Freeform, jinx
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:53:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 54,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26920939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quickening/pseuds/Shauna
Summary: “The night my sister was born, Death came for my mother. I was there to witness his arrival.”And on that night, Gabriella Quinn’s life irrevocably changed. An outcast touched by magic, tormented by shadows, she spends her days just trying to get by, until the one thing she fears might happen does.Death returns and, this time, she’s the one he wants.But maybe not for the reasons she believes...
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	1. Prologue - The Bleeding Sky

The night my sister was born, Death came for my mother.

I was there to witness his arrival.

Maybe if Mama had gone to the hospital like Daddy wanted her to, Death never would've found her. But Mama was old-fashioned and determined to have the baby in her own bed, just like she'd had me. I was only eight years old, so I wasn't allowed in the room with her during the birth, even though Daddy got to come and go whenever he wanted. The midwife and neighbors who came to help spent most of the day trying to keep me distracted, but I'm not dumb. Daddy kept looking more and more worried and tired out as the day went on, so I knew something was up.

The day was almost over before Mrs. Collins came down to tell me the baby was finally born, but Mama was resting and don't disturb her. I didn't care, though. I really wanted to meet my new sister and see how Mama was doing, so I pretended to go to bed like she wanted and as soon as the coast was clear, I made a beeline for my parents' room. I knew Daddy was downstairs having a sandwich; Mrs. Collins had scolded him for not eating all day and insisted on fixing him something.

There was Mama, in the middle of her huge bed. The pretty green comforter was on the floor, halfway underneath it. The sheets must've just been changed, 'cause there was a pile of them lying all crumpled up right inside the door. They looked dirty and didn't smell very good, so I tried not to breathe too deep when I passed them. I closed the door and then clicked the lock, just to make sure nobody else could come in and chase me out before I got my visit.

Mama's eyes were closed and her face looked white against the pale green pillowcases. Her long, blond hair was in a messy braid and in her arms was a tiny wrapped bundle with a little head of shiny black hair peeking out. She opened her eyes to look at me and gave me a tired smile. "Gabriella, come meet your little sister," she said in a quiet voice.

I came closer to the bed until I could better see the baby in her arms. "What's her name?" I asked. For months, my parents had tossed names back and forth, arguing over which would be the best choice. I knew it was a game between them, but I secretly hoped they hadn't _really_ settled on Daddy's suggestion of Bertha.

"We decided to name her Michaela," Mama told me.

"Is she named after an angel, too?"

"Yes, just like you are."

I smiled and decided right then I'd call her Mickie, like how everyone always called me Gabby.

Mama looked really tired. Her eyes were all droopy and it kind of looked like she'd been punched in both of them, with the dark rings underneath and all. And she kept yawning a lot. I guess having a baby must have been pretty hard work. It was already starting to get dark outside, so I hopped onto the big, stuffed armchair in the corner of the room and tried to decide if I should visit Mama a bit longer, or let her go to sleep. Besides, if I stayed too long, Mrs. Collins would come looking for me and then she'd scold me, which would make Daddy mad, too.

Somewhere in the middle of deciding, I guess I dozed off. When I woke up again, it was with a sharp jerk, like someone had poked me and scared me awake.

It was really cold all of a sudden. Someone had opened the window. The panes were swung in to show the pink-streaked sky. This early in spring, the air was still chilly as it drifted in to ruffle the curtains, which was probably why it was so cold. I heard voices and I rubbed my eyes and looked at the bed, expecting to see my father there.

A great, black shadow hovered directly over Mama's bedside, so tall that it seemed to fill up half the room. It definitely wasn't Daddy.

I suddenly couldn't breathe right. My throat got tight and my hands got all cold and sweaty at the same time. The stranger looked wicked, wrapped all in black with a pale, pointed face that didn't look real somehow. Bright, silver eyes glittered in that sharp face and they were fixed on Mama with the same sort of stare I'd see on my cat's face whenever he watched the little finches flitting around in the birdbath. If the stranger had a tail, I bet it would've lashed just like Tugger's always did.

The shadow man spoke and I could hear the low, velvet rumble of his voice. He didn't talk loud, but it almost vibrated clear through my chest, like how the clothes dryer did if I leaned on it when it ran. But I couldn't make out any words over the fast, painful _thudthudthud_ of my heart in my ears.

I couldn't hear Mama's reply, either, but her eyes glittered, too, and tears streaked down her white cheeks. To my horror, the shadow man sat down on the bed right beside her and reached out to take my sister from her arms. He cradled the baby in big, white hands before bringing her close to his body. Michaela began crying in a tinny little wail and Mama spoke again. Then the stranger leaned down, so close it almost looked like he was about to kiss her. I watched and wondered where Daddy was and why he wasn't in the room telling the shadow man to go away and leave Mama alone.

A faint, flickering glow appeared out of nowhere. It was dim at first but grew brighter, pulsing with a weird, bluish-silver light. It seemed brightest around the spot where the shadow man's head nearly touched Mama's. I realized the light seemed to come from out of Mama's body and flowed through her parted mouth right into his. It looked like he was _drinking_ her.

Mama kept getting fainter and paler as seconds passed, while Michaela's tiny cries started getting bigger and more insistent.

My heart kept pounding like Indian war drums beating faster and louder by the second. I wanted to cry and scream for Daddy to come help, but my breath kept getting in the way, solid little gasps that hissed sharply past my clenched teeth, keeping time with the drums pounding in my ears. Even my eyes felt like they were throbbing, making Mama and the dark man waver and blur.

He was gonna make them disappear, I realized. They'd both disappear and I'd never see them ever again and it would be all my fault!

That horrible thought finally pushed me out of the chair and I scrambled straight across the room and flung myself over Mama's body as my voice at last broke free with a high, shrieking, " _Stop!_ "

But it didn't stop. The deadly light just swallowed me up and an awful sensation like icy fingers spread all over and through my body, numbing everything they touched. There was a weird, not-quite-painful sort of pull, like the fingers had grabbed hold of something inside me and were trying their hardest to yank it clean through my skin. I screamed.

It only lasted a moment and then the terrible feeling suddenly disappeared. The shadow man reared back like he'd been yanked by the invisible fingers, too. He made an odd, surprised sort of noise and looked down at me with wide eyes. He looked like he hadn't known I was even there. When he stood up, he practically floated to his feet, like a feather. This close to him, I could see his skin was a strange color. It wasn't white like I thought. It looked gray, almost the color of the slate tiles Mama liked to paint on, but kind of shimmery like a pearl. And the color sort of shifted, the way sunlight and shadows shifted underneath the trees on a windy day.

He looked like he had shadows trapped in his skin _._

Michaela's cries were growing fainter again and Mama lay still and silent in the bed, her eyes closed. I wanted to shake her, make her open her eyes, but I couldn't do anything except lay there, gazing up at the shadow man from the corner of my eye. My mind felt muzzy, like it had gotten smothered in a blanket. The rest of me felt like a puppet with its strings cut. My arms and legs felt so heavy I could barely move them.

The shadow man knelt beside me, his silvered gaze stern on my face. Still cradled in his arms, Michaela's cries had finally quieted. Her breath sounded soft and raspy as she snored and I wondered how she could fall asleep so easy when such a scary man held her.

I tried to move again when he reached for me, but couldn't do much more than shiver and whimper. My breath still hissed fast and scared from my throat. It felt like I'd never be able to talk again. His fingers brushed my face, tucked my dark brown hair behind my ear as he said something in a low voice that I couldn't understand. It was a language I'd never heard before. A beautiful language that didn't sound human at all. It didn't even sound like words. His touch was light and cool, tickled a bit where his thumb stroked over my cheek. He didn't look evil anymore. His face was still pale and sharp-angled, but it looked softer somehow, almost kind. His skin glowed the way Mama's favorite pearl necklace always seemed to glow in the dark. I could see the pale tips of pointed ears poking up through long strands of glossy black hair. He looked like one of the people in the pictures I'd always admired in my favorite fairytale books.

It wasn't fair for Death to be so beautiful.

And then I heard Daddy's voice outside the door and the knob rattled loudly as he tried to turn it. "Constance? Gabby, are you in there? Why is the door locked? Why was Michaela crying?"

His voice helped me to finally find my own. "Daddy!" I shrieked.

"Gabby? Gabby, are you alright?" The doorknob rattled harder and then the door shook as something heavy thudded against it. "Open the door!"

The noise woke up Michaela, who started crying again. The shadow man glided from the bed and I managed to turn my head to watch him. He looked back at me for a second, then stooped down to put the baby carefully into her little crib. Then he turned to the window.

The thudding on the door got even louder and its entire frame shook as my father cursed and shouted from the other side. Something cracked and it suddenly flew open, hit the wall with a startling crash as he tumbled into the room. He scrambled up and raced to the bed, lifted me off Mama's body as he called her name over and over. He picked her up and shook her a little, sounding more and more upset when she didn't open her eyes. I knew something was wrong. She was too still and her face looked strange, not the right color. It looked almost as gray as the shadow man's.

Why wouldn't she wake up, I wondered. Why wouldn't she tell us she was okay?

There were tears in Daddy's eyes and it scared me because I'd never seen him cry before. "What's wrong with Mama?" I whispered.

Daddy made an odd noise, like a choked-off sob, and gently laid her back in the bed. "Gabby, what happened?" he asked in a strange, rasping voice. "Why was the door locked?"

I wanted to curl up into a ball and hide. I started to cry, because I knew I'd done something very bad. "I'm sorry, Daddy," I sobbed. "I wanted to see Mama and I locked the door so Mrs. Collins couldn't catch me. There was a man and he was all black and had pointed ears and he drank the light out of Mama's body. I tried to stop it but I couldn't move and he took Mickie and—"

"He took her? Where is she?" Daddy's voice sounded sharp and angry. I was even more afraid that he was angry at me. For locking the door. For not doing anything to help Mama.

"He put her in there," I stuttered through my tears, pointed a shaking finger at the crib. "And he flew away, out the window."

Daddy looked at me for a moment, before picking up the phone on the dresser and punching the buttons hard. He muttered a few words, waited a moment, muttered some more and hung up, stalked to the open window to gaze outside. I tried to sit up and discovered my arms and legs worked well enough to let me crawl out of the bed and stand beside it. But I had to hold on to the covers so I wouldn't fall. My knees still felt shaky and weak. I slowly reached out to touch Mama's face, shivered when I felt how cold it was.

I think that was the moment I realized Mama was never going to wake up again, never open her eyes or smile at me like she always did. The shadow man really had taken her away from us forever.

Something broke inside. One sob got free, then another, and then more poured out and I began to wail loudly, grabbed Mama's arm and shook it as I begged her to wake up, over and over again. Mickie was still crying, too, but her little voice got lost behind my screams. Daddy's arms came around me and he turned me around and held me tightly so my voice got muffled against his chest. I could feel him gasp and shake as he sobbed into my shoulder. In the distance, the wail of sirens cut the air, echoed over our crying.

After long moments, Daddy finally pushed me away to look at me through wet, red eyes. "Gabby, how did this happen? Who did this to you?" he choked out, took a lock of my long hair in his fingers to hold it up to the light. I blinked at it, trying to see through my swollen eyes. And I felt confused, because it didn't even look like my hair. My hair was dark, dark brown, just like Daddy's. But the part he held wasn't dark at all. It looked pale, so pale it gleamed white. Just like Mama's pearls. Just like the shadow man's skin.

"The shadow man did it," I sobbed and he hugged me close again. He held me until the police showed up and all the while I stared out the window, imagined that I could see a black speck flying against the backdrop of the sunset.

The sky looked like it was bleeding fire.


	2. One

I'm surrounded by a sea of beige.

Beige walls, beige ceiling, beige furniture... Even the floor is the pale, white oak laminate that they try to pass off as real wood, but anyone who has actually seen a hardwood floor can tell it's fake.

I guess all this beige is supposed to make the psychiatrist's office look soothing and inviting, but to me it just looks dingy, like nothing's been washed for awhile. I'll bet the germaphobes have a field day in this place. I'm tempted to say as much, but they'll probably just accuse me of being obstinate or something. I get accused of being obstinate a lot lately. It's becoming my new favorite word.

I shift in the dingy-white chair and the slick vinyl cushion under me creaks in protest. It's too warm in the tiny office. My T-shirt sticks uncomfortably to my back and I briefly consider removing my gray hoodie jacket. But then my bared arms will probably stick to the chair, adding more arm sweat to the collection of countless other arm-sweat already dried on. They probably _don't_ wipe down much in this place, come to think of it. I leave the jacket on.

There's a large, white oak desk separating me from Phyllis Anderson, my court-appointed psychiatrist. It's probably the only thing made of actual wood in this room. Even the potted tree in the corner is plastic. The good doctor continues to ignore me, as she has since I entered the room ten minutes ago, busily tapping away on her computer keyboard. She hasn't done much more than glance in my direction since I arrived. I'm on to her game, though. She's gauging my reaction, trying to rattle me and test my temper so she has more stuff to write down in her notes about me. So I just sit quietly and wait for her to get tired of waiting for me to do something.

I don't like shrinks, especially the ones who look like they only just graduated college, with their shiny new diplomas and textbooks and expensive designer suits. And especially their arrogance, as if they know everything about everything, despite having no actual experience. Dr. Anderson looks like one of _those_ types. I wish the judge would've at least let me pick my own psychiatrist. I'd have gone back to Dr. Nelson, who is sort of old and doddering, but he's kind and smiles a lot and he doesn't treat me like a moron. Or a monster. I'm sure he would've listened to me and understood that what happened to Jeremy Baker wasn't my fault. It's not like _I'm_ the one who pushed him off Mill Dam, after all. If he had left me alone to begin with, he'd be fine and not comatose in a hospital somewhere.

I realize I'm picking at my fingernails again and fold my hands in my lap to stop myself. It's a nervous habit that I've never been able to break. I don't even remember when it developed, but I suspect it was sometime right after Mama died. Being in places like this always brings it out, but I've gotten better, at least; I no longer worry my nails down to bloody quicks like I used to. I stare at my ugly, torn-up nails and remember my mother's hands, with their beautiful manicured nails that she always let me paint, even if I got nail polish all over her fingers. She used to paint my nails, too. Pretty shades of blue and purple and pink, with little designs and everything, and she never got polish on _my_ fingers. She was good at stuff like that. I clench my fists and stuff my hands into my pockets.

Another trickle of sweat makes its way down my hairline. It really _is_ too warm in this room and I'm sitting right beside the window with the sun beating down on me. Even though the window is cracked open, there's not enough of a breeze to make a difference. I wonder if I'll burn through my jacket. I always burn too easily if the sun is too bright. The heat makes me lethargic and I blink sleepily. The ticking clock on the wall, coupled with the rhythmic _taptaptap_ of the keyboard, are the only sounds in the room.

Then motion on the windowsill catches my eye, a sort of flickering and scratching. When I turn my head, a weathered face with red eyes and an ugly, snaggletooth grin leers back at me. Tattered gray moth wings flutter against its hairless back. It crouches like a monkey, taps at the glass with shriveled mummy hands, horrible little scritching ticks like chalk on a blackboard. Then it reaches under the pane and grasps at the hood of my jacket. Yellowed claws, like fingernails grown too long, hook in and _yank_. The feel of worn fabric tugging hard against my shoulders finally shocks me out of my stupor. I throw myself from the chair with a choked scream, hear the faint rip of tearing cloth as I land painfully on the floor and flip over to scramble away from the window, crab-walk until my back hits the fake potted tree and threatens to tip it over.

Dr. Anderson leaps to her feet, gapes down at me with an expression like she can't decide whether to be startled or mad. When her keyboard and a mug of coffee slide and tip and fall with noisy clatters to the floor, she settles on option two. Her livid gaze darts between me and the window, where a gray and white pigeon struts back and forth, picks at the brick sill outside with little scritching ticks, like chalk on a blackboard.

I close my eyes, swamped with relief. Or maybe it's just the frustration that, yet again, I'd been played by my own mind. You'd think I'd be used to it by now, but it manages to get me every time. I don't even bother to defend myself when the doctor finally gets over her shock enough to lay in on me.

"What on earth is the matter with you?" she snaps. "Look what you made me do!" She picks up the keyboard that's liberally covered in spilled coffee and glares down at me. "I don't appreciate these sorts of childish antics in my office, Miss Quinn. Kindly get back into that chair and _sit still_."

I clench my teeth and pick myself up, rub the sting out of my scraped palms against my legs. Fake or not, that wood laminate is _rough_. "I dozed off," I mutter, the first excuse that comes to mind. "I was dreaming." No point trying to tell the truth. Not like it'd help my case or anything.

Dr. Anderson ignores me, too busy trying to clean off her keyboard. Even I can see it's ruined, but decide it might be better not to call any more attention to myself by pointing out the obvious. She finally gives up and storms out of the office to find a replacement and I use the opportunity to slink back to the chair, close my eyes and attempt some deep, calming breaths.

_Skrrrrtch skrtch skrtch_

A chill grabs the back of my neck with icy fingers before it melts under the heat of my sudden rage. I don't even glance over as my arm shoots out and my palm slaps against the window with a sharp smack, making the glass rattle. The pigeon takes off in a frantic burst of feathers and wing beats and I can only hope it takes its invisible companion with it.

I take another deep breath and sink into the chair, wishing to be anywhere but here. It isn't fair. Even in the middle of a big, noisy city miles away from the obscure little town called Pine Valley, I can't escape them. Those goblins and shadows that lurk in every corner, behind every door, under every bed. Always close, yet never quite _there_. I've seen them for as long as I can remember. Ever since _that_ night, at least. Ten years and even now I'm not sure if they're really there or if I'm still just jumping at imaginary ghosts. Or maybe I _am_ completely out of my mind. I suppose the really crazy people don't _know_ they're crazy.

My gaze wanders as I wait for the doctor to come back. The walls are decorated with motivational pictures and numerous diplomas. Albert Einstein razzes me from the framed print hanging just behind the desk, telling me in cartoon captions to never be afraid to be myself. I resist the urge to razz him back. What a crock. Being myself is what landed me in this place to begin with.

Dr. Anderson finally returns, a new keyboard and fresh mug of coffee in hand. She takes a few moments to sop up the remaining spill on the floor with paper towels she must've pulled from the bathroom dispenser. One of those cheap, industrial brands that don't actually absorb liquid.

She seems much more composed now, but I know the first impression has been made. Heck, I'd probably been tried and convicted from the moment I walked through that door and she got the first look at my weirdness. Bleached white hair and dead-white skin, like all the color had been sucked clean out of me. Maybe it had been when _he'd_ touched me all those years ago. Maybe he'd sucked out a piece of my soul and this was the physical manifestation of it. To this day the doctors insist my condition is just some weird form of albinism, the complete absence of pigment in the body. But they never could explain why a condition that most people are born with just suddenly showed up one day, straight out of nowhere and for no reason. Unless you count the trauma of witnessing my mother die as a legitimate "reason".

They also can't explain why my albinism never affected my eyes, which still have plenty of pigment in them. They're large and dark just like my mother's, the blue-black of a fading bruise. They used to throw around big, medical-sounding words to explain what _they_ think happened, but they don't seem to believe themselves any more than they'd believed me when I tried to tell them what had really happened all those years ago. And after a while, when it became apparent that my condition wasn't going to affect my physical health in any way, they stopped trying to explain anything and told me I'd just have to live with it.

Easy for them to say.

Keyboard plugged in, notebook open and pen in hand, Dr. Anderson finally seems ready to give me her full attention. She offers an overly-friendly smile, the kind you normally reserve for someone you don't particularly like. That's okay. She's not the first person to smile at me like that. I return the favor. "So, Gabriella," she begins pleasantly, "can you tell me why you're sitting here in my office this morning?"

Before my brain-to-mouth filter kicks in, I hear myself answer, "Because I have a math test this morning and I figured this was a good excuse to get out of taking it."

The smile vanishes and returns a moment later, far less friendly than before. I can almost hear her thinking, _So that's how it's gonna be, huh?_

"I'm rather disturbed by this report." She purses her heavily-lacquered mouth and studies her notes. "A boy is in the hospital, in a coma, after falling off a bridge and being carried three miles downstream in the river. Multiple contusions, a broken arm, three cracked ribs, serious concussion… He's lucky to be alive at all."

Not lucky for _me_ , I want to tell her and bite my tongue against the urge. No sense making things even worse for myself.

"According to witnesses, you pushed him."

I snort a derisive laugh. "Right. I beat the crap out of a guy who's twice my weight and pushed him off a dam."

Dr. Anderson stares at me. "Then, would you like to explain your side of the story?"

I can hear the condescension in her tone, grit my teeth against my rising temper. The overhead lights buzz and flicker and the computer monitor crackles with static. I take a deep, calming breath. Shorting out the electronics in her office probably isn't the wisest idea right now. I wonder briefly how upset I'd have to get before I shorted out the whole building. I did that once, right after my mom died and Dad had taken me in for testing. I'd somehow shut down the entire hospital for six hours, although I didn't realize the blackout had been my fault until much later. Thank goodness for backup generators. A lot of life-support patients would've been in deep shit because of that little accident.

The doctor clears her throat and I realize I've been lost in my own mind again.

"I hate Jeremy Baker." I can't mask the growl in my voice when I tell her this. "He's a bully and a coward. When I was ten, he pushed me out of a treehouse and I broke my leg and dislocated a shoulder. Do you think he was dragged off to court and forced to undergo psychiatric evaluation?"

She doesn't reply, merely stares me down across the desk.

"Last week, I was walking home from school and Jeremy started following me. He'd been drinking and he always gets extra mean when he drinks."

Dr. Anderson frowns. "Jeremy is the son of Police Chief Baker."

"Of course he is." I clench my fists in my pockets. "And that automatically makes him a friggin saint, right?"

"Kindly tone down the attitude, Miss Quinn," she scolds and scribbles in her notebook.

"I tried to lose him at the dam." My throat tightens and I swallow around the lump. "I thought if I could get across the bridge, I'd be okay. My house isn't that far from there and he was so drunk he could hardly walk straight. I figured he'd either pass out or give up." I hunch further into my seat. "That was before two of his friends—those so-called 'witnesses' you mentioned—came out on either side of the bridge and cornered me in the middle of it."

I swallow again as the lump gets bigger. The remembered fear of what happened next sinks like hot lead into my gut. "They held me down on the bridge and Jeremy kept coming closer. He kept saying … _awful_ things. He's never said things like _that_ before."

"Things like what?" Dr. Anderson presses.

"He wanted to know what … what it would be like to—" My words choke off as nausea rises. "—to 'do the albino freak'," I force myself to finish.

_That_ gets her attention; her eyes snap to mine, brow furrowed in what looks like actual concern. "And then? Did he attack you?" she asks.

I shake my head. He hadn't gotten the chance. But the things he'd kept saying… I can't even think them much less repeat them or I might upchuck my breakfast all over the nice, wooden desk. But I'll never forget that _look_ in his eye as he'd slurred those vile words…

The lights buzz again; with an audible pop, one of them blinks out. The doctor glances up with a frown before turning her attention back to me. "And the other two boys?" She keeps her voice low, soothing, as though trying to calm a frightened animal. I realize I've started to shiver like one. "Did they also threaten you?"

I give another shaky jerk of my head. "No, they—" I hesitate again as I try to recall and realize I can't even remember their names or faces. "I think … they were trying to talk him out of it. They said it was just a joke and he was taking it too far. But he told them to shut up or he'd tell his dad it was them who vandalized the graveyard last Halloween."

"And did they listen to him?"

"They…" I try to visualize details, but everything is something of a blur from this point. I still remember their vise-like grip on my arms, the sickening leer on Jeremy's face as he leaned in, reached out to _touch_ me…

And then I remember loud yelling and how the hands holding me down were just _gone_ as the boys suddenly went tumbling head-over-feet across the wooden planks, like they'd been pushed hard.

And Jeremy had been shoved by _nothing_ , held up against the rotting wooden rails of the bridge, his splotchy red face paled to sickly white as his eyes bugged out of his head. I remember his terrified screams, how his feet fruitlessly kicked the air, _six inches off the ground_ —

"Miss Quinn?"

—just before the wood behind him cracked and splintered with the force pinning his body against it and then he'd fallen down, down the thirty-foot drop over the dam and into the river below.

"Gabriella!"

Dr. Anderson's alarmed voice slams me back into the present. The lights flicker wildly and the computer's innards buzz ominously. The rank odor of burning microchips and plastic, a wisp of smoke rising from its body, warn of impending hard drive failure. I close my eyes and grip the chair, try to think calm, calm thoughts. My pulse slows by degrees and I choke down the fear and confusion. The sickening weight in my gut slowly lifts and the crackling tension dissipates.

"I … I don't remember what happened," I lie. "I must've blacked out."

She stares at me, an expression on her face that I've seen on far too many adults over the years. Suspicion, disbelief … and lurking in the back of her eyes, the stirrings of fear. The concern she'd earlier displayed has vanished, because she understands, now, just how normal I'm _not_.

To her credit, she gathers her composure and puts her game face back on. She picks up her pen and the folder containing my case file, determinedly scribbles notes on her pad of paper, but I barely register her words as she drones on, no doubt instructing me to see her again in the near future. The last order I'm given is a request to send in my father before she shoos me out the door. It seems today's session is over, which surprises me. I'd been geared up to sit in the too-warm office for several hours while being lectured on the evils of shoving people off bridges, but a glance at the clock reveals that hardly a half hour has ticked by. Clearly, Phyllis Anderson is as eager to be rid of me as I am to be rid of her. I wonder if I'd freaked her out enough to conveniently forget about any of those future appointments, court-ordered or not.

Dad sits quietly in the waiting area, paging through a magazine. He glances up when I appear, eyebrows raised in question. When I nod toward the office, a sort of resigned expression briefly crosses his face as he gets to his feet and trudges in without a word. I take his place in the chair, pick idly at my nails again as I wait.

Dad's been awfully quiet about this entire ordeal. When news of Jeremy's "accident" had got out and the cops showed up at our door, he spent hours in Chief Baker's office, trying to talk him out of arresting me. After all, they had no solid proof that I'd done anything, just the word of two boys who weren't exactly known for their upstanding moral values and who'd been pretty piss-faced themselves, anyway.

Everyone knows about the animosity between me and Jeremy, so everyone assumed I'd be the one to blame for any incident. Everyone tends to assume a lot about me. But Jeremy's fall off the dam isn't the first near-tragedy to hit Pine Valley. Freak accidents are pretty commonplace, in fact, and most of them tend to involve the people in my own age group, somehow. It's hardly any wonder why the majority of my peers consider me to be something of a bad luck charm and prefer to shun me rather than risk a trip to the hospital. Given that, you'd think Jeremy would've had more sense to steer clear of me, like the rest of them. But he never had been the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree.

When Dad finally comes back, he still doesn't say much, just checks out at the receptionist and accepts a small packet of paperwork. We head out to the hall and down the elevator in silence. It's only when we reach Dad's beat-up SUV and buckle in that he finally turns to me. "Is what Dr. Anderson told me true?" he asks, voice tight. "Was Jeremy Baker about to…?" He can't even finish the sentence, but it's obvious what he's asking.

I look away, face burning, give my best nonchalant shrug. "Sure seemed that way."

He wipes a hand over his face. "Why didn't you say this sooner? You should have told someone. You should have told Chief Baker!"

I can't help the snort of laughter that escapes. "What, like he'd actually _believe_ me? Come on, Dad, use sense." When he tries to protest, I plow on, "Even if I had said anything, you _know_ Baker would have just said I'd probably been asking for it or something."

Dad frowns at me. "That's not fair."

"You're right. It's not fair to me at _all_ ," I agree, pick up the packet of papers to browse them.

"You know that's not what I mean," he sighs as he starts the car. "Chief Baker is an excellent, upstanding citizen of our town."

"Yeah, with big ol' blinders on when it comes to his angelic son and minions. And you know he doesn't like me anyway. Bias all around!" I frown at the prescription slips in the packet. "More antidepressants? Right, 'cause those always work _so_ well. Oh, and an antipsychotic! Sweet! How much do you suppose we could get for this stuff on the streets?"

"Gabby…" he sighs.

"No, you're right. Too much risk. Wouldn't want to up my rap sheet to 'drug dealer' or anything. I'll just put these with the rest of the collection. I've almost got enough slips to wallpaper my entire bedroom now."

A snort of laughter escapes, despite his efforts to remain stern. The humor doesn't last, though, as he turns to face me fully, expression carefully blank. "I want to know. Did you push Jeremy Baker off that dam?" His tone is perfectly serious.

This is the first time he's outright confronted me about what happened. And while part of me is relieved that he's finally being a dad enough to ask, the other part is hurt that he feels like he _has_ to. I face him and clench my jaw and do my best to not give in to tears. "No," I say, flatly. "But, I wonder if he'd succeeded in violently raping me _before_ falling off the footbridge, would anyone be more willing to forgive me if I _had_?"

We stare each other down for a long moment before Dad sighs heavily, turns and puts the car into gear and we start the long drive home.


	3. Two

Pine Valley is one of those places whose description sits right between "very small town" and "very large village". I wouldn't go so far as to call it "backwater" but it definitely has an old-fashioned, _Leave it to Beaver_ sort of vibe going for it. Only two main roads crisscross in the center of everything, where the town hall sits proudly on one corner, facing an ancient statue of the founding fathers parked right in the middle of the street. The statue constantly undergoes yearly paint jobs, courtesy of Halloween pranksters, so what used to be plain white marble is now liberally coated with fading splatters of rainbow colors. And all three faces now sport very dapper, glow-in-the-dark green mustaches and spectacles, courtesy of this year's makeover.

The streets also boast lines of small, old-fashioned mom-and-pop shops with names like Wally's Dime-a-Dozen (Very misleading; Wally's prices are _definitely_ not that cheap) and Birdi's Beautiful Boutique, your one-stop clothes shop for the modern-day, stylish housewife (and by "modern day" I mean Birdi's style seems permanently stuck in the mid-twentieth century).

The side roads lead off to the residential areas, with maybe another business or two scattered throughout. And beyond that you find farmland and forests. We don't even have a stoplight, but there is a working gas station at the fringe edges. It's the newest business in the place, built a whole four decades ago when it finally became apparent that gas-driven vehicles were never going to go away and driving an hour to the next closest station just to fill your tank was downright ludicrous.

In a lot of ways, Pine Valley reminds me of Mayberry in the _Andy Griffith Show_. If Mayberry was crossed with that creepy neighborhood at the foot of Edward Scissorhands's mountain.

Of course, despite the town's name, there is a serious lack of anything resembling actual mountains nearby. A few small hills, maybe, and plenty of woodland to go around, but it doesn't exactly sit in a valley so much as in the middle of a very wide stretch of farmland, which is in turn surrounded by acres and acres of pine forest. I'll tell ya, nobody has any trouble finding a fresh Christmas tree in this place.

Way, waaay off in the distance are the highways that lead out to the rest of the world, but we're pretty closed off from civilization. The few strangers who do wander through are usually vacationing families who are either about to run out of gas or who managed to get themselves lost and are just looking for directions. Nobody visits this boring little town on _purpose_.

* * *

It's mid-afternoon by the time we get back home and both schools have just let out, so Dad parks in front of Valley Elementary and I get out to collect my sister. Valley High is just across the street and teens swarm out the doors like a hive of wasps. I hurry around the side of the school building before anyone notices me, practically trip over the equally energetic herd of tiny tots swarming the playground as I search for my sister.

For being such a small town, Pine Valley has a lot of kids. It seems like there are at least two or three new ones born each year. I guess when there's hardly anything else to do, boinking like bunnies is the only way some folk keep themselves entertained. At least Michaela will never suffer a lack of friends. Unlike me, the social pariah, she's a social butterfly. She's always got a gaggle of classmates tagging along and she's pretty much the leader of the pack.

I like little kids. Little kids are usually way braver than their parents. When I meet a new one, they might skirt around me for a little while, looking spooked, but once they realize I'm not out to drain their blood or eat their livers or anything else their parents might've told them, they're pretty chill with the freaky albino living in Michaela's house. I find it also helps to feed them things like apple pie and fresh-baked cookies. I've never met a child who couldn't be won over with cookies and a little bribery never hurt anyone.

I find Mickie on the monkey bars, swinging upside-down as she jabbers a mile-a-minute to a playmate. She uses wide, dramatic hand gestures to emphasize whatever point she's trying to make. Her long, brown-black curls nearly brush the muddy, trampled ground beneath her. I shake my head, wondering where she lost the elastic that had held her hair in its braid _this_ time. My sister has recently developed a special knack for losing hair ties. She keeps a small plastic container full of them and it seems like I constantly have to refill it. I'm probably responsible for single-handedly buying out Wally's stock every other month.

"Hey, Spaz! Time to go!" I call. She ignores me, of course. It's our typical routine. I smirk. "Well, okay. I _was_ gonna fry chicken for dinner tonight, but maybe I'll boil some fish instead. Oh, and peas. The really _squishy_ kind. You like those, right?"

She instantly swings down from the bars and skips over, playmate in tow. The little blonde girl gazes up at me as if I'm some sort of fascinating new species of insect. But she doesn't seem afraid so I try not to let the staring get to me. "Can Abby have dinner with us?" Mickie asks.

"I dunno. Is her mom okay with it?"

"We can go ask her. She lives just nearby."

I consider, then shrug. "Okay, but make it quick. Dad's waiting."

The girls take off and I turn to go back to the car. As I reach the road, something spatters hard off my back, followed by uproarious laughter. I reach back to brush at something wet and cold. Someone just threw a snowball at me. I grimace. We'd had a final snowfall two weeks back, but then the weather started to warm up and most of the snow melted. But there are still dirty piles of it pushed up against the side of the school building where the sun never reaches. A quick glance shows a small group of teens hanging out around a sleek yellow car across the street. That car belongs to one Staci Carley, former-best-friend-turned-schoolyard-bully. She perches on its hood, surrounded by her adoring fans—one of whom casually wipes his hand on his jeans—and smirks right at me. I just roll my eyes and keep walking.

Me and Staci used to do everything together, way back when. But when Mom died and everything … changed, so did she. Mickie is a leader but Staci is definitely a follower. She's a sheep, no matter how much she tries to act like a wolf. She can't live without her herd surrounding her and if that herd shuns another member, she would rather stab that person in the back and toss them out than stand beside them and defend them from the wolves on the outside.

I pull off my hoodie and shake off the muddy snow, which is really more mud than snow. Great, it's probably in my hair, too.

Dad raises an eyebrow at me as I climb into the car, but I just shrug. We're both well aware of my school problems and have long since given up trying to do anything about them. I'm a junior, so only one more year to put up with this crap and then it's over for good. "Mickie wants to bring Abby to dinner tonight," I inform him.

"Ah." He nods, then pauses. "Which one's Abby?"

"Short blond hair. Brown eyes. Glasses?" I prompt. "She gave Mickie the big beading kit for her birthday and it ended up all over the living room floor. You slipped on them and nearly broke your neck, remember?"

"Ah. I remember the beads."

I smirk at him. "Getting a little senile there?"

"It's hard to keep track of that horde. I'll have to start tagging them or something." He smiles at my snicker. "So, where are they?"

"Gonna ask Mrs. Abby, I guess. You don't think she knows I'm Michaela's sister, do you?"

"What does that have to do anything?"

I sigh and slouch into the seat. "I don't want Mickie to keep losing her friends because their parents don't like that she's related to me. It's happened before. I know some of them won't play with her because they're 'not allowed to'."

Dad sighs and runs a hand through his graying hair. "Mickie will never _not_ have friends," he says firmly. "She's too … charismatic. People are naturally drawn to her. She's like … sunlight in storm clouds."

I can't help smiling at the description. That's exactly how he always used to describe my mother. Everyone loved my mother and clearly Mickie got her best qualities. My smile fades as I consider. "It'll be easier," I say hesitantly, "when I move out of here."

He glances at me sharply as his jaw tightens. "You're not moving out," he replies, too calm.

It's an old argument. One I refuse to lose. I huff at him. "Dad, I'm eighteen. I graduate high school next year. My grades are the best in the class. I know I can apply for scholarships for college. Somewhere _away_ from Pine Valley. I can get a job to save money, and—"

"You'll be all alone out there," he points out.

"I'm all alone here, too," I snap and immediately regret it when I see the hurt in his eyes. I sigh heavily. "I can't just … spend the rest of my life in this village." I try to keep my voice from wavering. "I never understood why you didn't move us all out after … _you_ know. Wouldn't everything have been easier? All those whispers. All the gossip and torment. It's all because everyone thinks I'm crazy. Hell, sometimes _I_ think I'm crazy. And all those accidents … what just happened to Jeremy … I don't get why you never just locked me up somewhere and threw away the key. It would make things so much easier for you and Mickie."

"Family _does not_ just _abandon_ each other," he growls, voice fierce. "I lost Constance. How could I possibly just throw you away? You're my daughter, you and Mickie both. I would never forgive myself if I just gave up everything for my own convenience."

"Then why not move out of here and go somewhere far away where nobody knows us? Or knows what happened?" I press. "It can't be _that_ hard to start over, can it?"

He gazes out the window, eyes distant. "I've thought of it. Many times," he finally admits as he turns back to me, expression sad. "But all of our memories are _here_ , Gabby. The happy ones as well as the sad. Your mother is buried here. The life I built with her… Even if it's just memories now, I can't bring myself to give that up. I'm sorry if that seems selfish to you."

I feel myself tear up, blink rapidly to hold it in. "It's not selfish," I mumble as I turn away. Now I feel like a jerk. Of course he wouldn't want to forget Mom or our life with her. I don't want to forget her, either. But I still can't see myself living out my entire life buried under the oppression of this town. One way or another, I will find a way to leave this place for good.

Mickie suddenly races up full-tilt, with Abby close behind. They practically slam into the car to stop themselves and nearly give Dad a heart attack in the process. Both girls are red-faced and breathless, beaming smiles. "Abby can stay for dinner and she can even spend the night since it's Friday!" Mickie pants as she scrambles into the backseat.

Dad and I exchange amused glances. "Nice of you to ask for my permission, too," he deadpans as he pulls from the curve.

"Can Abby stay the night?" Mickie asks without missing a beat.

He smirks. "I dunno. I _was_ thinking of spending the evening watching TV in my underwear…"

"Dad," I groan.

" _Eeewwww!_ " both girls squeal, pulling faces.

"He does _not_ make a habit of watching TV in his underwear," I tell Abby hurriedly and punch my father in the arm.

He just grins. "Says you."

* * *

It's a very short drive to the house from the school. It's a very short drive from anywhere, really. I can walk from one end of town to the other within two hours and not even break a sweat. Getting to the outlying farms takes a little longer, but more people own bicycles than they do cars in this place. Staci, in fact, is one of two teens who actually owns a car. Jeremy Baker is the other one. Everyone else just bikes or walks to school. Jeremy and Staci could walk, too, but then they wouldn't be able to show off how rich and popular they are.

I race my sister to the door and let us in. Mickie immediately grabs Abby's hand and they pound up the stairs to her room, ignoring my reminder to hang their jackets and leave anything muddy by the front door. Dad follows and toes off his shoes, then goes off to his study to make phone calls. I feel a momentary pang of guilt, knowing he'd had to take yet another day off from his job at the lumber yard to drive me to the appointment. He'll have to make it up by going in tomorrow, even though he usually has weekends off. It takes an hour and a half each way just to get there and back, but the pay is decent and the health insurance is excellent, so he feels the long drive is worth it. I'm not so sure I agree, but at least his boss is understanding whenever he has to cut work, although I'm not sure how much he really _knows_ about the situation. I hope he never finds out; if Dad loses his job because of me on top of everything else, I'll never forgive myself.

I toss my jacket into the laundry room and head to the kitchen to start fixing dinner. I pull the chicken legs from the freezer and shuffle through the pantry for the ingredients I need to whip up some frying batter.

It isn't very long before Mickie and Abby pound back down the stairs. A moment later they race into the kitchen, make a beeline for the back door. Mickie has changed from her nice school clothes into a pair of ratty jeans and the old _Labyrinth_ T-shirt I'd handed down years ago. Jareth the Goblin King's handsome face looks a bit more cracked and faded than it used to after a hundred-plus washings. Mickie drags her coat by one sleeve as Abby follows behind, almost treading on the other trailing sleeve. "Where are you guys going?" I ask.

"We saw an animal in the forest!" Mickie says excitedly as she tugs her rain boots on and shrugs into the jacket.

"Wow. An animal. In the _forest_. Imagine that," I tease, and laugh when she pulls a face at me. "It's probably just a deer."

"Nu-uh! It's all black and it's _huge_!"

"My bad. Sounds like a bear. It's probably waiting for you guys to go out and feed it."

She pulls another face. "It isn't a bear, either. It didn't look like one."

"It looked like a horse," Abby puts in. "It had glowy red eyes."

A glowy-eyed black horse? Unlikely. "It's just a deer or something," I repeat.

Mickie, as usual, is undeterred. "We're gonna go catch it!" She yanks open the door to rush outside. Abby hastily follows, forgetting to close it again.

"Yeah. Good luck with that." I roll my eyes. With as much racket as those two make, they'll be lucky if their mystery animal isn't halfway across the state by now. "Stay out of the forest!" I yell after them, close the door and return to my post to gaze out the window. I see them pacing around the treeline, trying to peer through the thickly-packed pines. There definitely aren't any deer that I can see. Or rabbits. Or birds, for that matter. Even the squirrels seem to have disappeared. The four feeders posted in our backyard—the source of many amusingly epic battles between the birds and the squirrels—look oddly abandoned. The sun has set just enough to sink behind the trees, casting long shadows over the ground. The forest itself looks dark and shadowed. Ominous.

I frown, try to brush aside my sudden unease. I distract myself by opening the packet of chicken and arrange the frozen legs on a plate.

I have a love-hate relationship with our microwave. It's an ancient behemoth of a machine that's older than I am. It had been a wedding present to my parents from our next-door neighbor, Mrs. Collins, and I think it was used even then. Pretty sure she'd found it at a church rummage sale and it had once worked behind the counter of Joe's Gas 'n Snack, warming up drive-through burritos and slices of day-old pizza. People in this town are big fans of recycling.

It's one of the earliest models (an antique, Mom used to claim), so it has turn-dials for the timer and settings that don't quite set and it tends to turn a perfectly good steak into beef jerky if you don't watch it carefully. Mom used to say it has character. Dad always claims it'll burn the house down someday. But it does thaw frozen meat like nobody's business, so I shove the plate of chicken into its open maw and set the timer for twenty minutes, reminding myself to check it in fifteen.

Mickie sometimes asks why we don't get a newer model. One with electronic buttons and real temperature control. Dad says there's no point wasting money on a new one when this one is still serviceable. What he really means is there's no point in getting a new one when I might accidentally short it out the first time I try to use it.

Me and modern electronics do _not_ get along. I'll never own a cell phone, not that I need one when I can just yell from one end of town and Dad would hear me on the other. I've forbidden myself from going anywhere near a computer after my freshman year, when I managed to blow out an entire room filled with them after some of Staci's comments had upset me. Luckily, Valley High is outdated enough that the use of internet, email, and computer programming to complete assignments is still optional.

I yawn, bored, as I wait for the chicken to thaw. My gaze wanders from the yard and settles instead on the window frame. The wood is badly scarred, pocked with small holes, dented and gouged where the hammer had missed the nails I'd tried to pound into the wood, to seal the window shut ten years ago. Every window in the house looks like this. So do the door frames where I'd nailed boards across all the doors. Anything and everything to keep the shadow man away. To keep all those taunting goblins from getting inside to torment me.

Dad hadn't punished me when he found me after the funeral, in hysterics as I babbled about the shadow man coming back again to take him and Michaela away from me, too. I can barely remember how heavily my fingers had bled from being repeatedly struck with the hammer, but I don't think I'd even felt the pain. Dad didn't scold me for ruining what was probably several thousand dollars worth of oak-wood framing. He'd merely reassured me as best he could that the strange man wouldn't come back and after he'd finally gotten me to sleep, he removed all of the boards and nails. He'd probably cried the entire time.

The microwave beeps loudly and I jump, muttering curses under my breath as I try to shake off the bad memories like a dog shaking water out of its coat. It's been ten years and the shadow man has yet to return. I can't imagine that he ever will again and sometimes I wonder if he'd ever been there in the first place. Maybe he was just a figment, too, like all those other shadows lurking in the corners.

The microwave had cooperated for a change and didn't completely dry out the chicken. I reach for the hot plate, nearly drop it when I forget to grab a potholder first. I hiss and suck my burned fingers before turning on the faucet to run them under cold water.

Dad reappears and settles into a kitchen chair, newspaper in hand. He must have picked one up when we stopped for gas on the way home from the psychiatrist. "Where's your sister?" he asks as he opens it to the funnies section.

"She's outside with Abby. They're stalking a deer or a bear something."

He blinks at me. "Knew I should've bought her a shotgun for Christmas. Always wanted a bearskin rug."

I snort with laughter. "Every pet in the village would have to flee for their lives. Probably their owners, too. The _bear_ would be the only one safe."

He chuckles and buries his face in the paper. "Better call the girls in. I think it's gonna storm. You see how dark it's getting out there?"

Now that he mentions it, it does seem to be darkening faster than it should. It's March, just barely into spring, and the sun doesn't fully set until after six, but it's only just five o'clock now.

I finish mixing the frying batter, then grab a coat off the rack beside the back door and go out. I can just make out the figure of one of the girls standing at the edge of the forest. After a bit of squinting, I realize it's Abby, standing silently in front of the treeline. Mickie is nowhere in sight.

_Uh-oh._

I hurry toward Abby, calling her name. She doesn't answer or even turn around. I might be addressing a statue for all the acknowledgment I get. I give her shoulder a brief shake. "Hey. Where's Mickie?"

Silent, she points at the forest. Her expression looks oddly vacant.

"She went into the woods?" I'm confused, to say the least. Mickie knows better than to play around in the forest, especially in the dark. She's usually too scared to venture too far in, anyway.

Abby gives a brief nod.

"Okay, let's go into the house now," I coax. I take her by the hand, shocked at how cold it feels. "Would you like a cup of hot chocolate? And I've got some of those cookies you had last time you visited. I'm gonna fry us some chicken for supper. Do you like fried chicken? Everyone likes fried chicken, right?"

She nods again, still vacant, obediently follows me back to the lit porch. There's a flash of movement from the upper window next door. I glance up just in time to catch Mrs. Collins ducking behind the curtain. I wonder why she even bothers. The drapes are age-yellowed lace; I can see her profile right through them, backlit by the rosy glow of her antique Tiffany lamp. She holds a telephone receiver to her ear and I try to guess which bored housewife she's nattering at this time. Probably Abby's mother. I wonder if this is the last time Abby comes over to play.

It's sometimes hard to remember that Mrs. Collins ever liked me. Before Mom died she used to invite me to her house for tea or to bake cookies and cake. She always had a five-dollar bill for me on my birthday and at Christmas. Her husband had died years back and she has no children, so she used to dote on all of the children like they were her own, myself included. She still dotes on the neighborhood kids, in fact. Just not on me.

After Mom's death, Mrs. Collins and our other neighbors were pillars of support. They helped my father with Mickie when he just couldn't handle the two of us by himself. They brought meals over, cleaned the house, called every day to see how we were doing. Dad had been a mess back then, the way he'd wandered around like a lost soul and I guess I wasn't much better. Without Mom, it was as if the entire world had gone dull and cold. It was sometimes hard to remember Mickie even existed and that she needed us. Without the care and support of all our neighbors, we wouldn't have made it past the first two months.

So the day I overheard Mrs. Collins talking with Mrs. Browne, who lives next door on the other side of us, speculating on whether _I'd_ been the real cause of my mother's death—The locked door, the lack of witnesses, my hysteria about an imaginary shadow man all seemed very suspicious, didn't it?—it was as if something inside me just ... broke. I remember an _awful_ wailing—the combined shrieks of myself, Mrs. Collins and Mrs. Browne—and the next thing I knew, someone was pulling me off Mrs. Collins's body, her face and arms scratched and bruised where I'd repeatedly hit her as I screamed at her to take back the lies.

Mrs. Browne had long since fled, presumably to call the police. Or the nearest gossip-monger.

Naturally, word spread fast about my attempted murder on sweet, innocent Mrs. Collins and with each retelling, the story grew more and more outlandish. That was when people started treating me like a feral dog, the psycho they all believe I am. But I guess that incident is also what finally shook my father out of his numbing grief. That's when he'd started taking me to see all those psychiatrists, but it's also when he started behaving like Daddy again. He pulled himself together, started to make an effort to raise his babies and things started to get a little better. Within my family, at least.

I sigh heavily as I lead Abby into the house and make her sit at the table. Dad glances up from his paper. "Where's Mickie?" He frowns as he takes a good look at Abby. "What's wrong with her? She looks…"

"Stoned?"

"Not the word I'd have chosen, but … yeah."

I shrug. "I dunno. She was just standing at the edge of the forest. She said Mickie went inside."

His brow furrows. "The house?"

I snicker. Dad tends to be lost to reality when he's reading his paper. "The _woods_ ," I emphasize. "Could you make her some chocolate or something? I gotta go get Mickie."

"She knows better than to go into the forest by herself."

"I'll find her. She's too chicken to go too far from the house when it gets dark."

Dad makes a noncommittal sound in his throat. He looks doubtful and I don't blame him. The entire situation feels more than a little weird and I can't stop thinking about the strange animal in the forest. The big, black one with the glowy red eyes.

Maybe I do have good reason to feel anxious.


	4. Three

I hate the forest. It makes me uneasy. It's cold and dark all year round and the ground is always muddy. If not from rainfall, then from snow that still lingers in the boughs and between the roots of the pine trees. They're so densely packed that not much sunlight gets through, so the air is always chilly and damp and the spongy earth never dries out. I suppose it's good for the plantlife. Not so great for anyone trying to traverse the woods, though.

Despite my earlier teasing, there's no cause to worry about wild animals. At least not the dangerous kind. There has never been an actual bear sighting around these parts and the only wolves I know of all live in a sanctuary much further north. There might be a few foxes or feral dogs wandering about, but they're more dangerous to the chickens and the occasional farm goose that strays too far from home. Most wildlife has the sense to shy from inhabited areas and they'd never attack a person, unless they're desperately hungry or sick.

Of course, there _are_ the ghosts.

Most small towns have their share of ghost stories. An empty house with doors and windows that open and close by themselves; an abandoned factory that flashes weird lights and makes strange noises in the night. Pine Valley happens to have a haunted forest, or so all the kids claim. Stories like this are always passed through the kids, since they're way more gullible than most adults. Mickie is no exception. The reason she's afraid of the forest isn't because of potential bear maulings. She's scared the ghosts will jump out and grab her. I'd like to scoff and say she's just being silly. I always tell her ghosts aren't real, but I think half the time I'm trying to convince _myself_ of that, more than her. After all, _she's_ not the one who sees weird mummy-monkeys pawing at window sills.

A twig snaps just inside the treeline, startlingly loud in the too-quiet forest. I jump and a little yip escapes before I can stop it. I clutch the flashlight I'd grabbed from the rummage drawer on the way out just a little tighter. "M-Mickie?" I call and push through the close-packed branches of the pines until I'm surrounded. There's a bit of a path, half-covered with undergrowth. I switch on the flashlight, illuminating dense walls of green. _There is no reason to be scared,_ I tell myself firmly, pushing further in. _Nothing lives in the forest except normal animals. There are no shadow people waiting to jump me._

Something skitters through the dead leaves at my feet and I squeal loudly and leap sideways, right into one of the long-needled pines. " _Son_ of a…!" I disentangle myself from the branches, shake needles out of my clothes, pull a few stickers from my jeans and even more from my hair. Maybe I should go back and put on a heavier coat. Or a suit of armor. Those needles are damned _sharp_.

"Michaela, where are you?" I shout. My voice sounds strangely muffled, swallowed by the silence. I cringe. I never realized before how quiet the forest actually _is_. With the deepening shadows all around, it gives off an even more sinister feel. Shouldn't there be _some_ noise? Buzzing insects or owl hoots or _something_? I shiver again and walk further along the path. "I'm gonna kick your ass if you're hiding from me!" I threaten the empty air. "Let's see how soon you're allowed to have a sleepover again!"

I trudge on for a bit, then stop to open my jacket. It's hard to navigate the path, especially in the dark, and I'm not exactly in peak physical condition. And the air feels unusually warm, not the chilly, humid, misty air I remember. Even the ground in places seems strangely dry. Weird.

I walk a bit further, glance over my shoulder to judge how far I've wandered, only to unhappily discover that I can't even see the lights from the house anymore. I stop. This can't be right. I can't have gone _that_ far yet. I should be able to see the floodlight in our backyard, at least.

"Michaela Victoria _Quinn_ , you get your ass _out_ here _this instant_! I am _not_ playing around!" I shout. When I use _that_ tone, it generally does the trick.

No response.

I force myself to breathe calmly and steadily as unwelcome thoughts start to creep in.

What if something really happened to her?

What if there is a bear wandering around? Just because nobody's ever seen one doesn't mean they aren't out there, right?

Or what if it isn't a bear? What if something _else_ got her, instead?

My pulse beats loud and fast. Like drums in my ears. Even regulated breathing can't slow it down. I hesitate, try to decide if I should keep going or turn around and run back to the house.

A soft whisper of movement to my left makes me jump again; I swing the flashlight around, just in time to catch the glimpse of a small, dark figure scurry under low-hanging branches. "It's just a rabbit," I whisper, voice catching on my next breath.

Something titters next to my ear in response.

I shriek and bolt sideways, plow right into another tree as I frantically shine the light around. The gleam of an eye peers out at me between dark green branches before vanishing. I heave another shuddering breath that's nearly a sob.

Something rough and sharp suddenly bounces off the side of my head. I scream again as a pinecone lands at my feet and jump away from the tree. The sting of fresh scratches on exposed skin barely registers as I bolt along the overgrown path, back to the safety of my house.

A flurry of activity explodes all around me as my invisible tormentors immediately give chase. Giggles and snickers echo behind and above and beside me. The low branches on either side shake violently as something charges through them. A rock whispers past my ear, hits the tree in front of me. I yelp as my feet tangle in the underbrush and go down on my stomach hard enough to knock the wind out of me. The flashlight skitters away. Its beam flickers and blinks out, but not before it briefly illuminates a small, wrinkled, grotesque figure that snarls and snaps with hooked teeth and grasps at my hair and clothes with claws like fingernails grown too long.

I have no more breath to scream. All I can do is scramble to my feet, ignore the sting of hair ripped from my scalp, the burn of cuts and scrapes on my hands, and keep running. There's pain in my twisted ankle, but I ignore that, too.

Something explodes out of the tree directly in front of me. A gleam of bright eyes and shimmering black feathers, frantic flapping, and the crow I'd just startled from its nest wings off into the night with loud, indignant caws. My feet tangle a second time and I go down hard, unable to break my fall in time. My head hits the ground with a dull thud, strikes something hard. An eruption of light and pain behind my eyes, then nothing.

* * *

I come to by slow degrees, chased into wakefulness by fleeting nightmares of ghouls that snap at my heels as I race through an endless labyrinth of pine trees.

The first thing I'm aware of is the dull pain in my head. I grimace and reach to touch it, find a cold washcloth folded across my forehead and under it the large welt that graces my temple. The next thing I'm aware of is that I'm no longer in the forest. I force one eye open, note the rosy glow of my bedside lamp. I'm back in my own room, on my bed. How did I get here? I sit up, slowly. I'm still woozy, but aside from the bump, the rest of me appears to still be in one piece. Relatively speaking. My clothes are filthy. Liberally coated with mud, tree sap, and a healthy dose of pine needles. There's a bit of blood, too, from the deeper scratches my run-ins with the trees had left behind. At least whoever had put me here had the sense to lay me on top of the worn quilt rather than under it. There'll be less bedding to wash that way.

My door opens to admit my father. His face washes with relief when he sees I'm awake and sitting up. "What happened?" I ask. "How'd I get back here?"

"That's what I'd like to know." Dad places a bottle of ibuprofen on my bedside table, then seats himself in the old reading chair between the bed and the window, the one that used to be in his and Mom's room. "Mickie came rushing into the house, screaming that you were dead. About gave me a heart attack. Poor Abby started crying. Had to get them both settled down. I found you in the middle of the yard, unconscious. Looks like you'd lost a battle with a pine tree or something."

"A few of them, I think." I frown and dab at my bump with the washcloth. At least it doesn't seem to be bleeding. But given how easily I bruise, half my face is probably black and blue. "Is it bad?" I ask. I sound pitiful even to my own ears.

He chuckles. "I've seen worse. You'll live."

I sigh and attempt to wipe dirt and dried blood from my hands and arms. The scratches sting a bit. I'll probably need the iodine. But my ankle doesn't hurt much so at least I didn't sprain it badly when I fell. If I wrap it with a cold pack overnight, it should be good as new. "How'd I get to the yard?" I ask. "I was way out there. I couldn't even see the light anymore."

He looks confused. "Mickie says her friend helped drag you back. You were only a few yards into the forest."

"Her friend?" It's my turn to be confused. I tilt my head, immediately regret it when the movement makes it throb. "You mean Abby?"

"No. Uh, I think she said his name is Auri? I guess he went home after. I didn't even see him."

"Auri." I think for a few moments. "Name doesn't ring a bell. Pretty sure I don't know anyone named Auri around here."

"Maybe a new family moved into town."

"What, you mean on _purpose_?"

He chuffs another laugh. "How's the head feel?"

I shrug. "Could be worse, I guess. It hurts a bit."

"Do you feel dizzy? Any trouble focusing your eyes? Blurry vision?"

I think for a bit, shrug again. "Aside from the pain, it seems okay."

Dad nods as he gets to his feet. "I don't think you have a concussion, just a bump. But try not to sleep for awhile yet, okay? I've gotta go check on the girls. Oh, I put the chicken and batter in the fridge. It's not too late. I'll fry it if you're up for some food. Or I can order a pizza."

"I'm not so hungry. Order pizza if you want. I'll make the chicken tomorrow. You have to work?"

"Yeah. Got some paperwork to file and a big lumber order to fill. I'll be home after supper. If your head's okay, can you keep an eye on the girls for me?"

"No problem."

He turns to leave the room. Pauses in the doorway. When he turns back again, he looks uncertain. "Are you sure…?" He hesitates. "Did … something else happen while you were out there?" His voice is carefully neutral, but he watches me carefully, to gauge my reaction.

I also school my face into a blank mask. "Such as?"

He shrugs. "When I carried you up here, you kept muttering about … goblins and monsters. Did you…?" He pauses again and I hate the way he can't meet my eyes, as if embarrassed to look at me. "Did you have another episode out there?"

I bite the inside of my lip so hard I taste blood. "I thought I'd walked too far from the house. It was really dark and I could hardly see. A bird flew out of a tree and scared me. You know how easily I spook. I tripped and lost the flashlight. I guess that's when I hit my head. And I must not have been as far into the woods as I thought if Mickie and her friend could drag me back here so easily."

He stands silently for a long moment, then nods his head, accepting my explanation. But I can tell he doesn't really believe it. Dr. Anderson had probably told him all about my little freakout in her office this morning. He shuts the door and I flop back into the pillows and blow out a long breath. My head throbs again, so I grab the bottle of ibuprofen and pour a few tablets into my hand. As I down the pills, I think of the bottles of stronger medication I have hidden under the bathroom sink, in a storage bin shoved to the very back of the cabinet. There must be at least ten bottles in that bin, mostly untouched. Various prescriptions handed to me over the years, to help with my "problems". None of them ever did me any good, of course, except to cause even more problems due to side-effects.

Not for the first time, I consider my options. I was only half-joking when I'd asked Dad about selling the drugs. Some of this stuff is probably worth a ton of money on the streets and I know a number of teens who would pay through the nose for it. I'd already been approached by two of them, in fact, who'd offered to buy some of my antipsychotics. It's what had given me the idea to sell in the first place. I initially refused them, of course—The _last_ thing I need is for someone to go squealing to Chief Baker that I'm dealing drugs on top of everything else—but the idea has never left me alone since.

With money like that, I could start building myself a nice little nest egg. Finding a job is impossible in this town since nobody would ever consider hiring me, but if I can apply for scholarships to colleges in other states, I'd at least have housing in the dormitories. I'm sure I could find a part-time job as a cook or a housekeeper or something. I'm pretty good at both and even cleaning public toilets for a living would be okay with me, because at least I'd _finally_ be out of Pine Valley.

Of course, there's still the issue of my father, who would never willingly let me go. Not that he can stop me; I _am_ technically an adult. But to just up and leave would probably break his heart and can I really do that to him after everything I've already put him through? Sure, it might be better for both him and Mickie in the end if I'm gone, but getting him to see my point of view has so far proven to be an insurmountable task.

I sigh and pop the cap back on the bottle of painkillers. No matter how tempting it is, I know I won't try to sell the drugs. Half of them have probably expired, anyhow, and I'm not brave enough to take the risk of getting caught. It'd only cause more trouble for my family and Chief Baker is just itching for a solid reason to finally lock me up and throw away the key. I want to get out of Pine Valley, sure, but _not_ through a lifelong federal prison sentence.

* * *

I feel almost human again after a hot shower. Wrapped in my favorite robe, I wander to the living room to see what my sister is up to. I find her and Abby parked in front of the television, deeply absorbed in the used Atari she had somehow talked Dad into buying for her at one of the church rummage sales last summer. I plop onto the worn couch and snatch a slice of pizza from the open box between the two girls. Abby looks over at me but Mickie's eyes never leave the game. "So, you think hiding from me in the forest is fun, huh?" I ask, nudging her in the back with my foot.

She still doesn't look away. "I wasn't hiding. I was playing with Auri."

I purse my lips. "I don't know anyone named Auri. Is he your imaginary friend?"

"Auri's real! Right Abby?"

Abby nods silently, picking bits of sausage off her pizza slice.

I blink. "You've seen him?"

"He plays with us sometimes," she says. "But only ever when Mickie plays, too. He doesn't come when she's not there."

"Do you play in the schoolyard?"

The girls nod. I frown. "Does he go to school there? What grade is he in?"

"I dunno. He's not in anyone's class. He leaves when recess is over," Mickie replies, then groans when Pacman goes into his death-throes. "You made me die!" she accuses me and tosses the controller to Abby, who snatches it up for her turn.

I lean over the couch, attempting to get my sister's full attention. "Mickie, how old is this boy? Is he your age?"

She just shrugs.

"Is he _my_ age?"

She shakes her head, curls swaying. "No, he's not _old_."

I smirk and poke her in the side. "If he's not _old_ then he should be in your school, right? All kids go to school."

"Auri doesn't. He doesn't have to. He already knows stuff," Abby puts in as she concentrates on eating pixilated ghosts.

"What kind of stuff? Reading and writing?"

"I guess." Mickie shrugs again. "He knows lots of stuff about other things, too. He likes to tell us stories."

My brow furrows again. "About?"

"Ummmm…" The girls exchange glances. "He said that Mrs. Browne and Chief Baker sometimes meet at the farm her parents used to own and they go into the barn and do things."

Abby snickers and adds, " _Naughty_ things, like you see in grownup movies. Like kissing and stuff."

My eyebrows shoot into my hairline and I nearly choke on my pizza. The Stepford Wife and the chief of police, getting it on in the hayloft? This is news to me. Especially since, as far as I know, both parties are happily married. Intrigued, I lean closer. "And what else does Auri tell you?"

"He said that Berti's Beautiful Boutique doubles as a…" Mickie pauses to think. "He said it was a head shop." She tilts her head curiously. "What's a head shop?"

For the second time in as many minutes, I find myself choking. "If it's true, it's a place you are _never, ever_ allowed to enter again," I wheeze as I attempt to dislodge pizza from my windpipe. I go to the kitchen for a glass of water, wiping at my tearing eyes. I'm starting to believe this mysterious Auri is _not_ someone my sister and her friends should hang around with. And I say as much as soon as I'm back in the living room. "How long have you known this boy?" I scold. "Do you even know where he lives?"

"The forest. _Duh_." Mickie pulls a face at me.

"What, like Peter Pan?"

"Peter Pan lives in Neverland," Abby helpfully reminds me. On the television, Pacman goes into more death throes. She sighs and hands Mickie the controller. "Let's play something else now."

" _Focus_ , children." I snap my fingers to regain their attention. "What does Auri look like?" Because I'm going to keep a sharp eye out and the first time I see that kid, I'm warning him to stay _far_ away from my sister. We're already under enough scrutiny from the neighbors as it is.

The girls look at each other again, like they're not quite sure. I purse my lips. "Didn't he just help you get me back to the yard?" I remind Mickie. "Don't try to tell me you don't remember."

"He has … black hair," Abby says, uncertain.

My heart jolts. "Really long hair?"

She shakes her head.

"It's kinda messy," Mickie adds. "I don't think he brushes it much."

"He always looks dirty, too." Abby wrinkles her nose. "His clothes are all torn up. And he smells kind of funny, but not _bad_ funny. I don't think he takes baths much, either."

I relax a bit. That description doesn't match the memory of the shadow man in my head. "Is he very tall?"

Again, it's like they have to think about it for a moment to remember. "He's taller than me," Mickie finally replies. "But not as tall as you."

I absently worry a thumbnail. "I think you need to stay away from him," I tell her in my firmest mom-voice. "You have no idea where he came from and Dad wouldn't like you running around with a strange boy. He could get you into all sorts of trouble."

"No, he won't! He's my friend!" Mickie's cheeks start to turn red, like they always do when she gets angry. "He's not trouble, he helps you a lot!"

I frown. "What do you mean, he helps _me_?"

She falters, then plunges on, "He's the one who found you when you got lost and brought you home. He said you should stay out of the forest because it's dangerous for you."

"Oh, but it's okay for _you_ to play in the forest?"

"Auri protects me." Mickie crosses her arms stubbornly. "He protects you, too. Like he did when Jeremy Baker tried to do something awful to you."

I freeze and I can almost feel the blood drain from my face, leaving me lightheaded. "He … protected me when…?" I can't finish the sentence.

Mickie peeks at me through her lashes, pouting. "I wasn't supposed to tell you. But he told me he's sorry he didn't do a better job. He should have made them _all_ go away, not just Jeremy. He didn't try to get you in trouble on purpose."

The pizza I'd just eaten threatens to regurgitate. I press a palm over my mouth and swallow back the nausea. "He's the one who … pushed Jeremy off the dam?" I whisper.

She shrugs yet again, turns back to the Atari to switch the games. I get the feeling she's done with the conversation, so I climb unsteadily to my feet to go back to my room. Suddenly, all I want is to crawl into bed and go to sleep and try to forget this day ever occurred.


	5. Four

Dad's already gone when I stumble downstairs the next morning. I'd heard the engine start at the crack of dawn and feel vaguely guilty again that he had to use his free Saturday to make up the work he'd missed yesterday. It's barely nine o'clock. I wouldn't mind more sleep myself, as I'd spent most of the night tossing and turning in fitful dozes, my dreams haunted by the usual visions of goblins and tall, pale men lurking in the shadows.

Actually, that's the first I've dreamed of the shadow man himself in a long time. Mickie's revelation about her mysterious friend seems to have jarred the nightmares loose again. I'm absolutely convinced this Auri kid isn't at all who she thinks he is. Maybe Dad can talk her into staying away from him. She's far more likely to obey him, especially if he threatens to take privileges away. I may have helped to raise her but I'm still just her sister. Which she's always quick to point out when she decides she doesn't want to listen to me.

A peek into the living room reveals Mickie sprawled her sleeping bag, limbs askew. She's never been the most graceful sleeper. I smirk as I remove the empty pizza box from under her pillow, nudge the leg sprawled over her friend's stomach back onto her own bag. Abby had crawled inside her bag and no wonder. The air is still pretty chilly this early in the spring, although you'd never know it looking at my sister's thin, summer pajamas. It's like she's impervious to the cold. She could go dancing in a blizzard in a bathing suit and probably wouldn't catch so much as a sniffle.

"You guys want pancakes?" I ask loudly. All I get is an irritated grumble, hastily step to the side when Mickie kicks out at me with one leg. She's always a royal grouch when she stays up late and gets up too early. No need to make poor Abby suffer her wrath, so I tiptoe to the kitchen to fix myself some breakfast. They'll wake up when they get hungry enough, although given they'd polished off that entire pizza by themselves, they probably won't want to eat until lunchtime, at least.

* * *

"We wanna go to the Lake."

I glance up from my book to find Mickie and Abby watching me with hopeful expressions on their faces. "It's not warm enough to swim yet. It's only March," I remind them.

"It's warm enough to fish!" Mickie holds up a pair of ancient fishing rods. "I wanna catch a salmon!"

"There aren't any salmon in the Lake," I tell her, amused. "Sunfish and tadpoles, maybe. A few crawdads here and there."

"What's a crawdad?" Abby asks.

"It's a tiny lobster!" Mickie holds her thumb and forefinger apart to demonstrate length.

I roll my eyes. "It's a _crayfish_. Which you can find in the streams closer to the house."

"But _we_ wanna go to the _Lake_ ," Mickie emphasizes.

"So go. Nobody's stopping you."

"Gabbyyyyy!" she whines and insistently tugs on my hand. "We're not _allowed_ to go all the way there without a grownup. Daddy said so!"

I sigh and close my book. I can recognize a losing battle when I'm fighting it. "Did Abby bring a change of clothes?" I ask, as it occurs to me that she's still wearing a pair of Mickie's pajamas. When the girls look at each other and shake their heads, I shake my head, too. Some sleepover. "Okay. Mickie, lend her some of your old play clothes to wear so she doesn't get her nice things all muddy. Make sure you wear comfortable shoes. It's a long walk. And carry your _own_ rods. I'm not your packhorse."

Or so I say, but an hour later I find myself trudging down the sidewalk, wrestling Dad's old Red Flyer wagon filled with blankets, beach chairs, and various fishing implements into line behind me. It doesn't come easily, in large part due to the bent front axle that makes the left wheel spin at an odd angle.

Mickie and Abby skip ahead. They each carry a fishing rod and a large picnic basket swings between them. They sing a loud, off-key rendition of some pop song with lyrics that make my eyebrows rise to my hairline. Dad would have a heart attack if he heard them, but I wonder if the girls even realize what they're singing about. Still, it's better than listening to them whine about how tired their legs are; I suspect I'll be getting an earful of _that_ on the trip home.

The Lake is a pretty far walk from my house, a good forty-five minutes each way. Biking it would be both faster and easier if not for all the stuff we carry. Not for the first time, I wish I could talk Dad into buying a second car. Doesn't have to be anything fancy or even anything from this century. Just something with four wheels and a working engine to get around in when bicycles and legs just won't cut it.

Even if I don't own a car, I do know how to drive one. Dad taught me himself when I was only fourteen, letting me joyride all around the back roads outside of town. Of course, I'm not legally licensed or anything. I don't even have a learner's permit. But it's sort of hard to get ahold of something like that when the nearest DMV is over two hours away. I've asked Dad plenty of times if he'd go with me to get my permit. But he's always got some excuse why we can't go. I know he's busy working and all, but I can't help thinking that he only started finding excuses not to take me _after_ I started bringing up my desire to leave Pine Valley for good.

* * *

We finally reach the Lake and Michaela and Abby waste another fifteen minutes searching for the "perfect fishing spot" while I continue to struggle with the uncooperative wagon. My patience slowly wears thin. Finally, when it looks like they're about to reject spot number seven—which looks exactly like the first six—I stop in my tracks and snap, "Either you _pick_ someplace to _sit down_ or I'm turning around and going home. _Now._ "

Spot number seven is immediately decided upon and both girls hightail it to the water. I roll my eyes at their backs. "No, no. I've got it. I don't need any help," I grumble as I drag the wagon down the beach. Sand and tires just don't mix and I'm winded before I reach the shoreline. Luckily, this particular beach is surprisingly deserted. So were most of the other spots. The Lake is one of the most popular hangouts in Pine Valley on weekends. Perhaps it's still too early in the year for most of the families to visit. It's still much too cold for swimming, but there are docks and boathouses and there are always people out fishing and boating in the deeper parts of the lake. The teen crowd, especially, tends to hang out at the Lake all year round. Cold weather never seems to deter them from making the most of the beaches, which is why I never come here myself when given the choice. I'd just be asking for trouble.

Once upon a time, this place had been a very popular holiday resort, but it's been closed down for decades.

Diamond Shores Lake was the resort's official name and families from all over used to vacation here. The lake itself has always been here, but back in the early nineteen-fifties, some big, outside corporation managed to talk the members of Pine Valley's town council into allowing them to build the resort just outside the town limits. There was more than enough land for something like that and it would bring in more revenue for the town, provide more jobs for the locals. Pine Valley could grow and become a popular vacation area for families.

Apparently, the council liked the idea of a bigger, better Pine Valley. So contracts were signed and the resort company got to work. They dug the natural lake out and made it five times bigger all around. They built small docks and big, fancy boathouses for the rich folk who wished to dock their boats at the Lake year-round. Then they cleared the overgrown parts of the shoreline, turned them into actual beaches and covered them in pristine white sand they'd imported from some tropical island. It's how the resort got its name, although the sand itself isn't so pristine anymore. It sure doesn't sparkle like diamonds.

The company also built a bunch of cabins and a large dance hall and restaurant in the woods around the Lake, advertising it as a relaxing family vacation spot. They spared no expense, obviously trying to cater to the rich and picky. The grainy snapshots I've seen of the resort in its heyday show a very picturesque sort of campground, sort of like in _Dirty Dancing_. It might have actually been a very successful enterprise for both the company and the town, if a rash of kidnappings hadn't occurred to scare off all the customers and eventually drive the place out of business.

The truth is, Pine Valley has always had a bit of a dark past, way before I ever came into the world. The rumors of the haunted forest exist for a reason. If one digs deeply enough into the town's history, there have been other cases of mysterious disappearances dating all the way back to its founding.

In this case, five different girls, all around my age, had disappeared over the course of four years, from the time the resort was built to the time it closed down again.

The girls didn't have a lot in common, except they were all around the same age and they all had blond hair and blue eyes. Nobody was related to each other or even knew each other. The first girl to vanish was a local who worked as a housemaid at the resort. The other four had all been guests there. The strange thing was that nobody actually _saw_ any of them get kidnapped. There were no reports of shady characters hanging around, no suspicious activity. The girls just up and vanished. Even though everyone searched high and low for them, they were never seen again.

After that, Diamond Shores Lake became well-known for an entirely different reason. The locals were convinced the place was cursed and blamed the town council for allowing Big Business to move in and disrupt their peaceful way of life. They thought they'd angered the spirits of the forest or something, who were taking revenge.

The less superstitious were just convinced that some serial killer was running loose and until he or she was caught they had no desire to be next on the hit list. When the local police failed to turn up any evidence or even a clue, big city cops were called in to conduct more thorough investigations. They hunted the forest, dredged the entire lake several times over, and were equally unsuccessful at solving the case. By that time the newspapers had also gotten involved. Reporters from all over the States showed up to dig their noses into the case. The tabloids were especially abundant. For a while there, Pine Valley was solidly on the map and not with the sort of fame the council had been hoping for.

It all fell to pieces when the very first kidnapped girl finally came home, almost four years to the day of her disappearance. She just … showed up one day, as unexpectedly as she'd vanished. What was even weirder was how drastically her physical appearance had altered. Although only twenty-one, she'd aged so dramatically that she looked like someone's grandmother. Even worse, her mind was almost gone. She was found wandering the edge of the forest close to the resort, wearing strange clothes and babbling like a lunatic. Of course she was questioned by the cops, but she had no memory of where she'd been or what had happened to her. She could barely remember her own name. It was like she had partially aged in reverse or something; whereas her body had gotten older, her mind had regressed back to toddlerhood. She was eventually labeled insane and taken to some asylum in another city, where I imagine she might still live to this day.

Her return was the final nail in Diamond Shore Lake's proverbial coffin. The tabloids had a field day, running all sorts of stories. The remaining workers who hadn't yet quit immediately did so. Reservations came to a screeching halt and financial backers pulled out one after the other. The outside company was finally forced to cut their losses and shut the place down for good.

And the strangest thing of all? As soon as the resort closed, all the kidnappings stopped.

It sure gave credence to all the rumors of the place being cursed, only now Pine Valley itself was said to be cursed, which of course was the last thing the council wanted. Although a couple more outside businesses offered to capitalize on the entire "haunted town" idea, they weren't having it. They ran out the reporters, refused to conduct business with anyone who didn't have direct connections with the town. After a few years the hubbub finally died down and Pine Valley was officially back off the map. It's pretty much remained there ever since.

The remains of the resort still stand around the Lake. Nobody ever bothered to tear the place down. The dance hall still gets used on a regular basis, but the restaurant closed and is used as a storage facility now, housing old school equipment and such. Some of the cabins are still inhabited further out in the woods—seasonal game hunters, mostly—but the rest have gotten pretty run-down over the decades. Not much left of them but empty husks. The police have Keep Out signs posted all over the place but nobody ever enforces them, so all sorts of shenanigans are gotten up to in the ruins. Or so Dad always warns when he tells us to steer well clear of them.

* * *

The sound of an engine catches my attention; far out on the water, a pair of speedboats appear, cutting across each other's waves in crazy-stupid fashion. One cuts it a little too close and nearly capsizes; I hear faint shrieks of fear and whoops of laughter as the boat rights itself and races on.

I roll my eyes and continue to set up the beach chairs. That could only be Staci and her devoted lemmings. I knew they had to be around here somewhere and nobody else would be stupid enough to take those kinds of risks. Hopefully they're far enough out that they won't notice us on the shore. Staci can never resist tormenting me when given the opportunity and ever since the incident with Jeremy, she's only gotten worse. It's no secret that she's always had a major jones for him, although I have no idea whether they're actually together or not. Jeremy doesn't strike me as the type to tie himself down to one girl for long. If Staci didn't hold so much animosity toward me, I could almost feel sorry for her. Nobody deserves to be stuck with an asshole like Jeremy Baker.

While Mickie shows her friend how to bait a hook (and I double-check the wagon to make sure I packed the first-aid kit), I take time to slather a layer of sunscreen on my arms, neck and face before I jam a baseball cap on over my hair. It belongs to my sister so it's a bit too small. I wince when it presses uncomfortably against my bruised head, but the last thing I need is to go into school on Monday looking like a boiled lobster on top of my black-and-blue face. Maybe I'll just take a few extra days off until the bruises fade more.

Abby squeals and Mickie laughs as she dangles a worm in front of her face. I don't know what the fuss is about; all the bait is rubber and plastic. The "worm" in question glows neon green in the sun as my sister casts off and sends it flying. She plops down on the beach to wait for a nibble, nudges bare toes into the gentle waves lapping along the shore. I smirk at her back. She won't last five minutes before she's in the water to hunt down the fish herself. She doesn't have the patience to wait for them to come to _her_.

I drag my messenger bag free from the wagon and riffle for the homework I haven't gotten around to finishing yet. I still have two chapters of my biology textbook to read. There's also the English Literature essay that was assigned a month go, which I have yet to actually write. I usually write out a rough draft in a notebook, then type it all out on the old typewriter in my room. It used to belong to Mom, but I inherited it after she died. Dad owns a computer and it would probably be easier to type and print on that, but I don't dare touch it.

Besides, I just like listening to the sounds the typewriter makes as I write. They're comforting. They remind me of Mom and the hours she used to spend typing out her little stories. She wasn't a professional author or anything, but she did love fairy tales and she was a pretty good storyteller. She used to read them to me and let me help her "edit" them. And then we'd read them to Dad, who would always ask silly questions about them to tease us. I used to think I was going to write stories when I grew up, too. It never happened, of course. I sort of lost interest in pretty much everything after she died. But I wonder what had happened to her stories. I hope Dad hadn't thrown them out.

A splash draws my attention. Sure enough, Mickie has abandoned her rod and jacket on the beach and now wades through calf-deep water, her jeans rolled up to her knees. She half-crouches with hands at the ready, peers intently into the ripples her movements cause, clearly hoping to catch fish using a more archaic method. Or maybe she's just trying to herd them toward Abby's hook. The other girl merely toes the shoreline and doesn't seem quite as eager to dip her legs in the chilly water.

I go back to studying, at least until Abby's sudden yelp jerks my gaze back to the water. She's dancing in place on the sand, frantically reeling in her line as my sister splashes to the shore. "I got one!" she cries. "I got one, I got one!"

My jaw drops. I can't believe it. That had actually _worked_?

"Don't jerk the rod so hard or it'll get loose," Mickie scolds and dives for the line to lift a small bluegill from the water. "Let's cook it for lunch!" she calls to me as she attempts to hold onto the slippery, wriggling fish.

I purse my lips. "Yeah, no. Pretty sure bluegill isn't on the menu. Besides, we're supposed to throw the little ones back. It's the rules."

The girls pout, but that doesn't deter them from dragging an empty cooler to the water to fill it. Mickie shows Abby how to unhook the fish without damaging it, then tosses it into its temporary home. They crouch on either side to coo over how pretty and shiny its scales are for a few moments, until Mickie announces, "Let's go catch another one!" They hop to their feet and my sister splashes back into the water while Abby tosses the line again. I shake my head, smiling to myself. Some fishermen just have all the luck.

I go back to reading. Well, try to, anyway. But it's hard to concentrate in such a serene atmosphere. The sun feels warm on my face, but a soft spring breeze offsets its heat, teases my hair and clothes with little gusts. The motorboats had vanished to the other side of the lake so the only sounds are the gentle lap of water against the shore, disrupted by the faint giggles and splashes of the girls. Regardless of my halfhearted attempts to study, my mind starts to wander and I soon find myself staring out over the Lake more than my textbook as I drift in and out of a peaceful doze.

* * *

Something smacks me painfully on the cheek. I instantly wake with a startled yelp, disoriented from the deep slumber I'd inadvertently slipped into. I stumble off my chair as loud whoops of laughter ring in my ears, blink to clear the lingering sleep from my eyes until my gaze falls on three figures standing not far away. Staci snickers down at me, arms crossed over her generous chest as two of her boys flank her on either side. She rolls a smooth, round pebble between her manicured fingers. I scowl and rub my stinging cheek. "Did you just throw a _rock_ at me?" I'm probably more surprised than I ought to be, but Staci is normally content just to sling barbed words in my direction, not actual stones.

"Aren't you supposed to be babysitting or something?" she snidely asks in return. I blink, glance around to locate the girls. Abby's in the water, standing up to her knees in the shallows. She hasn't bothered to roll her pants up. I'm not sure she even took her shoes off; I don't see them on the bank. I frown, a spark of unease igniting. Her stance, the way she just stands there, staring into the distance with Michaela nowhere in sight … it's all distressingly familiar.

I forget all about Staci and her minions as I hurry toward the child, toe off my ballet flats before stepping into the lake. Even this close to the shore, the water is _freezing_ , almost unnaturally so. I shiver and force myself to wade far enough to reach Abby. My jeans, too tight at the ankle to roll properly, sop up the frigid water and cling uncomfortably to my legs. I can feel my skin break out in goosebumps.

I snap my fingers in front of Abby's face to draw her attention. She's got that same dazed look she had last night after Mickie disappeared into the forest. "Where's my sister?" I ask, more sharply than intended. When she just offers a slow blink in reply, I give her shoulders a rough, brief shake. "Focus, Abby! Where did Michaela go?"

She blinks again and murmurs, "Auri."

My blood freezes into ice, momentarily stills my breath. "What about Auri?" I grind out. "Did he take her?" She nods. " _Where_ did he take her?" For a moment it seems as if she didn't hear me, but then her arm comes up, one finger points out over the water. My brow furrows. "He took her … into the Lake? You mean out on a boat or something?"

"He took her on his back," Abby says, voice faint. "Don't worry, Gabby. She said she'll come back. She just wanted to see the magic garden."

"The … garden? On his _back_?" I shake my head, more confused than ever. Something is seriously off about all this. "Why didn't the two of you wake me up?" I demand. "You should know not to go off with strangers!"

"Auri isn't a stranger. He's our friend."

I want to scream and have to force myself not to shake her again. I have a captive audience, after all. Besides, it isn't Abby's fault that I'm dumb enough to fall asleep when I'm supposed to be watching the kids. Dad's gonna _kill_ me when he finds out about this. I rub a hand over my face, trying to hold down the panic. "Okay. Abby, when did Mickie leave with Auri?"

She shrugs. I groan. Of course she doesn't know. I glance around, noting with unease how low the sun has sunk in the sky. It had barely been noon when we'd arrived at the Lake. How long had I been sleeping?

"What time is it?" I glance at Staci, who of course hasn't bothered to leave yet. No doubt she's taking mental notes of everything. Lots of new fodder to add to her gossip list.

She exchanges glances with her friends, as if they're surprised I'm actually daring to address her. "Just before five," she finally replies, checking the slender gold watch strapped around her wrist.

My heart jumps again. Five hours. I'd been asleep for nearly _five hours_. "Di—" I almost choke on my dry tongue. "Did any of you … see a boy out there? Maybe in a boat? Or … in the water?" My voice sounds too hoarse and it rankles that I'm being forced to ask _them_ of all people for help. But my sister is in trouble and there's nobody else around. I have to do _something_.

More glances exchanged. Staci steps forward, a frown pulling at her lips. "What's going on, Gabby?"

I gape at her, stunned. It's been _years_ since she uttered my real name and is that actual _concern_ in her voice? Shaking off my shock, I stutter, "Th-there's a boy who's been hanging around. His name is Auri. I think … he made off with my sister. Abby said he took her into the Lake."

"What's he look like?" The question comes from one of Staci's boys. His name is Jim, if I remember right. He's in my English Literature class.

"He's got black hair," I reply. "He's not that old, around ten or eleven, I guess. That's all I know. Have you seen him? Maybe when you were out in the boats earlier?"

"Never seen a kid like that." He spits a huge wad of phlegm in the dirt.

It nearly lands on Staci's sandaled foot and she hops back with a squeal of protest. "Jim, that's _disgusting_! How many times have I told you not to do that in front of me? Take your gross male habits somewhere else," she snarls, the very picture of feminine indignation. Jim just rolls his eyes and trudges toward the road, where Staci's car is parked off to the side.

"Hey. There's something out there." For the first time, the other guy speaks. He squints at the water, shielding his eyes from the glare of the setting sun. "You see it?" He points. "Out there, that black blob."

I focus my entire attention on the Lake. It's hard to make anything out thanks to the sunsparks that dance off the ripples, but as my eyes adjust to the dazzling light display, I can just make out the dark, formless shape bobbing gently on the surface. I narrow my eyes, strain to make out what it is.

"Oh my gosh, is that a _person_?" Staci gasps.

Blind panic slams into me as I belatedly realize that the mystery object is in fact someone's _head_. "Ohhhh, no, no, _no_. Not Michaela," I whimper. I've got my jacket off and am halfway into the water before Staci's shrill voice registers through the rhythmic pounding in my ears.

"What are you _doing_? Are you _insane_?" she shrieks.

It takes a few moments before I realize that I'm laughing. Hysterical giggles pour from my mouth before I close it so fast that my teeth click. A few stray snorts escape as I turn around and my grin must be borderline manic to cause Staci to back a few steps away. "Haven't you always said so?" I taunt. Before she can gather her wits to snark back, I add, "Do me a favor and take Abby home. Her parents are probably worried. She can direct you."

I don't give anyone a chance to argue as I turn around and splash into the Lake. It closes over my head, freezes my skin and blood and threatens to steal the breath from my lungs. I force my stiffening arms and legs to move, to swim as fast as I can toward the … _thing_ I'd seen in the water.

 _Don't let it be her,_ I chant silently. _Please don't let it be Mickie. Not my sister. Not my sister._

I'm finally close enough to see and my heart drops like a lead weight into my feet, threatens to drag me under. It's definitely a person, facing the other shore. A head of shiny black hair, slicked against the skull. A pair of shoulders bob beneath the surface and a pair of white hands cut the water in front of them, treading.

I frown and swim closer. Something's off. The shoulders look too wide. The plastered curls are definitely too short. My heart slams in my throat along with the realization. " _Auri!_ " I shriek.

The boy slowly turns to face me. The glimpse of a pale, pointed face and deep dark eyes. An unkempt mop of sodden hair, sunsparks caught in soft curls. A devilish smirk painted across full lips.

And then, in the flicker of an eyelash, he's just … _gone_.

I blink rapidly. Was it an apparition? Had I just been caught in yet another hallucination?

No, the ripples of movement cut beneath the surface and my body warms with sudden fury. I gulp in several deep breaths, fill my lungs with as much air as I can possibly hold and plunge beneath the water. Faint movement registers far below me. A pair of legs kick frantically. How had he gotten so far down so _fast_? I dive after him, struggle to kick in my waterlogged jeans. The rough fabric chafes sharply at my skin but I can't let it deter me. I've always considered myself to be a good swimmer, but it seems I'm a novice compared to the little creep leading me a merry chase. No matter how I try, I just can't seem to catch up and it isn't long at all before I lose sight of him entirely.

It's funny. I don't remember the Lake being this _deep_. The deepest parts aren't more than thirty or forty feet down. Shouldn't I have reached the bottom by now, or at least _see_ it? But the only thing I see is dark, freezing water all around. There's too much pressure. I've gone too far down and my lungs scream for air. Light spots dance before my eyes. I'm at my limit and I'll pass out if I don't go up for air _now_. I want to scream and cry in frustration as I kick for the surface. I see faint sparkles of sunlight, much too distant. How deep had I gone? I start to panic as the need for air grows worse, realizing I'm not going to make it before I pass out and drown.

But I _can't_ die now. What will happen to Mickie? If that Auri took her, who will know? What if he tries to hurt her? What if he already _did_?

The thoughts are exactly what I need to regain my waning energy. It fuels my hard, desperate kicks until I finally breach the surface of the Lake with a mighty splash. Deep, shuddering breaths heave in and out of my starved lungs, mingle with choked sobs as I struggle desperately to stay afloat. I'm so exhausted by now that I can barely see straight. My head spins and nausea lurks at the back of my throat as I struggle toward the nearest shore.

Which, for some reason, has gotten much closer than it's supposed to be.

My feet finally touch bottom and sink into soft mud that feels much different from the hard-packed sand I'm used to. It squishes between my bare toes and I shudder and high-step it to the bank. I'm so dizzy and exhausted that it's hard to focus and it takes me several long moments to get a sense of what feels so _wrong_ about this place.

Then it finally sinks in that the lake I'm standing in isn't a lake at all. Not the Diamond Shores Lake, anyway. It looks more like a very small pond, complete with thick bushels of reeds and lilypads and scraggly, overgrown grass drooping into still, glassy water. There are no sandy beaches, just steep, muddy banks with far too many trees circling them.

The water suddenly ripples as something living scuds across it, just beneath the surface and only an inch from my arm. I squawk and scramble out of the pond, use the slimy roots of a half-dead tree for purchase as I claw my way up the slick bank. I hear movement in the water again, turn in time to see the top of a scaly head break the surface. Like a turtle, except much larger. Yellow, serpentine eyes fix on me in a cold, unblinking stare.


	6. Five

In retrospect, racing full-tilt through an unfamiliar forest probably isn't one of the smarter things I've done in my life. Blind terror tends to turn even the most level-headed people into idiots and I've never been particularly sensible when it comes to my personal demons. I can hear their chitters and whispers all around me as I crash through the trees. I don't know how far I run before something trips me and I go sprawling onto my stomach, the wind knocked clean out of me. I gasp for breath and the pain from landing directly on my stomach threatens to make me sick. There's an even bigger pain in my feet and when I finally force myself to sit up and examine them, I wince at the damage to my bare soles. They're filthy and oozing blood from numerous cuts. Some of those cuts look pretty deep and I attempt to wipe them with the sleeve of my soaked shirt. My feet throb, make my eyes prick with tears. How am I supposed to walk like this?

The forest is quiet now. So quiet it's almost deafening. Just like last night. The sense of _wrongness_ is unbearable and my heart still pounds too hard. One of these days it's just going to quit on me altogether. I grit my teeth and think of Mickie, who is still missing. Just like those other girls, the four who never came back and the one who _did_ , all twisted up inside and out. I _don't_ want that to happen to my sister. Gritting my teeth, I force myself to stand … and very nearly fall again from the pain of it.

There's something like a little stream trickling close by. Really more of a runoff between two rocks. I sit on a fallen log and, after a moment, remove my long-sleeved T-shirt, leaving me in my bra. The air is cold and I shiver, clench my jaw to keep my teeth from knocking together. It takes some strength and I'm all worn out, but I manage to loosen the stitches around the sleeves well enough to tear them both off. I pull the now-sleeveless shirt back over my head, then do my best to bathe my swelling feet in the tiny stream. The water is probably polluted with all sorts of bacteria, but I can't think of that right now. When I'm satisfied the worst of the blood and dirt is cleaned off, I carefully slip the torn sleeves over my feet, doubling them up to provide a bit of protection and cushioning. Not perfect, but definitely better than nothing.

Standing is still a chore, even with my makeshift footwear. I manage to hobble a few steps, using the trees as support. In no time at all my legs start to shake, muscles quivering from the pain those few steps cause. I grit my teeth harder, frustrated. I'm never going to get anywhere like this. And if I don't figure out what I'm doing, Dad will have _two_ missing daughters to hunt for.

I have no idea where I am, but I'm almost certain it isn't the pine forest. The trees are all wrong. So is the smell. It doesn't smell like pine sap and Christmas. It smells of moss and wet earth and looks like some ancient, primordial forest that has stood for aeons of time. The trees tower over me, branches locked together to blot out anything resembling daylight. Clumps of toadstools sprout in bright bursts of color all along trunks slicked with dark, glistening algae. The lowest branches stretch high over my head, roped with wet streamers of moss and vines.

This forest looks like something straight out of Middle Earth and I shiver and hug myself, trying to ward off more chills. No. I'm definitely not in Pine Valley anymore. But I can't stop to think of how I ended up in this place or how I'm going to get home again, because blind panic clearly is not something one should indulge in a situation like this. As if mocking the thought, a branch snaps somewhere in the distance, echoing in the silence. I jerk sharply and my feet throb with the movement. I can't just stick around, waiting to be found by whatever wild animals live here. Just because I can't hear them doesn't mean they aren't watching me and the way things are going, they all probably have sharp teeth and dine on lost girls.

I poke around until I find a branch sturdy enough to serve as a suitable walking stick. I break a few leafy twigs off it with some difficulty. The rough wood chafes my blistering fingers and I wince. If only I had a pocket knife or something to protect myself. And a flashlight. A flashlight definitely would come in handy right now. The light's so dim I can barely see in front of me. It makes walking a bit treacherous and even taking careful steps doesn't help me avoid stubbing my toes on roots and stones. The canopy makes it impossible to tell whether the sun has set yet or not. If it hasn't, then it's only going to get darker the longer I walk. I'll have to find some place to hole up soon, preferably out of the reach of any night predators.

Another branch cracks and I yip and veer to the right, nearly trip in my haste. I hobble on a few more minutes until yet another crack has me jerking to the left. This happens several more times and just as it begins to dawn on me that something appears to be _herding_ me somewhere, a faint, welcoming glow catches my eye through the trees far ahead. My breath catches.

Light.

A _house_.

 _People_.

Relief swamps me, causes me to stumble in my haste to reach potential help. I hurry anyway, find my way suddenly clear of the underbrush that's been tripping me up so often. The wide path has been cushioned with soft moss, lined with pale, smooth stones on both sides. My heart skips and my entire body suddenly feels lighter as hope swells. Somebody made this path, so there _must_ be people ahead! The light grows brighter, too, as if the forest is thinning out. I do my best to ignore the throbbing pain and pick up speed, desperate to get to help. With one last burst of adrenaline, I plunge through the trees with the full expectation of landing in somebody's yard.

Instead, I nearly run headlong into the wall that's suddenly in front of me.

"Gyack!" I yelp, skid to a stop barely in time to keep from plowing straight into it. My feet slip out from under me and I land square on my butt with a pained grunt.

Blinking in surprise, I gape up at a wall built with some kind of crystalline stone that glitters like fresh snow. When I painfully stand, the top of it just reaches my shoulders. The light I'd followed seems to emanate from the wealth of tiny blossoms spreading over most of its surface and all over the wide, flat clearing just beyond. I edge closer, trying to figure out what I'm looking at. I've never seen flowers like these before. The blossoms grow on silvery vines with wide silver leaves, like ivy. In appearance, they're slightly smaller than a quarter and look similar to roses, but the pure white petals glow with soft light and in the very center of each blossom, a splash of bright crimson stands in sharp contrast. Like droplets of blood on snow.

A sweet, cloying scent wafts from the tiny blooms, covers the entire area with an enticing, familiar smell that I can't quite put my finger on. That's probably because the scent seems to shift with every breath. On one inhale, the smell of honey tickles my nose. On the next I'm breathing in fresh apple pie. Then it's the aroma of vanilla pudding. After that, the homemade funnel cake they serve at the annual school bazaar.

The flowers are the strangest, most beautiful things I've ever seen and they scare the hell out of me. There is nothing natural about them and what's more, the shifting fragrance has an odd effect on me. My mind grows fuzzier the longer I breathe it in and my eyes can no longer seem to focus properly. I'm starting to feel very, very tired. Is this some kind of a supernatural drug? Had I been herded straight into a trap?

I stumble away from the blossoms and cover my nose with one arm, try to breathe shallowly as I gaze over the wall. It completely encloses the meadow-like clearing. A blanket of thick, emerald moss spreads across the ground beneath its coat of enchanted flowers. Flowering bushes cluster in the corners, their blooms a myriad of unnaturally bright color.

_Magic garden…_

A chill shivers up my spine at the recollection of Abby's words. Is this the place where Auri supposedly took Michaela? But it's empty, aside from a pristine fountain crafted of the same stone as the wall, standing in its very center. Clear water pours in a crystalline sheet over its tiers and into the basin, the flow so smooth it hardly causes a ripple. Suddenly, I realize how unbearably _thirsty_ I am. Thoughts of enchanted flowers and missing sisters vanish as I swallow, throat parched, sticky and hot. I stare at the glittering fountain with longing. If I can just get a sip or two of that water…

My feet move before I even command them to and I hobble all along four sides of the enclosure, searching for an entrance. My efforts are fruitless. I scowl with frustration. How is anyone expected to get into the garden without a proper gate? But I'm _so thirsty_. I purse my lips, consider, then shrug and step forward, prepare to hoist myself bodily over the wall.

I catch movement from the corner of my eye.

With a startled yelp, I whirl to face the forest.

I see nothing, but I can _feel_ something's presence. I feel its eyes fixed on me, honed in, and my knuckles go even whiter as I tighten my grip on my walking stick. The slightest shift in the deep shadows swelling under the trees as something even _darker_ stirs. I gulp, breath catching as the cloying flowers clog my throat, make my senses spin. I curse and stumble away from the wall, closer to the primordial trees ringing it.

And I hear something _breathing_ in the dark.

My body goes numb as icy terror floods my veins. Slowly, I turn my head, face the source of the hideous, rattling breath. And I see it, a dark silhouette crouched not six feet away.

It appears vaguely human. A hunched, crooked sort of human. And it doesn't seem to have a solid shape, all filmy and tattered around the edges like wisps of fog. I can't make out any distinguishing features where its head should be, except for the faint glimmer of an eye. And it's entirely black, as if somebody's shadow had been cut loose and left to wander around all by itself.

_Shadow man!_

For a moment, my vision actually goes gray from the wave of fresh terror that swamps me. My legs go weak and I'm forced to lean heavily on my walking stick to keep from toppling right over. I lock my quaking knees and use the wall as support to keep standing. Even the enchanted flowers' mind-numbing odor can't calm me down.

We face each other for several long moments, frozen in place, until I begin to realize that something feels … _off_. It slowly dawns on me that the monster in front of me _isn't_ the one who had stolen my mother all those years ago. The shadow man in my memories had been beautiful. So beautiful that he looked like something out of a dream. This wraith-like creature is as far from beautiful as one can get. I've never liked horror movies all that much, but my sister loves them so I've seen my share. And this thing looks like something that could have been spawned out of any one of them. How many monsters can possibly _exist_ in this world?

I glance at the branch in my hand and wonder how useful it might be against a creature that looks as if solid objects would just pass right through it. I also wonder why it hasn't actually _attacked_ me yet. I'm certain it's seen me, but it doesn't move from its spot. It seems perfectly content to remain just where it is, almost like it's … _guarding_ something.

A series of loud cracks from within the trees startles me. The wraith shifts, turns its head toward the forest. Unwilling to take my eyes off of it, I nevertheless find my gaze darting to the deep shadows beneath the trees, trying to see what it's staring at.

A myriad of glowing eyes blink back at me.

I drop my stick as panic claws at my chest. I'd know those eyes anywhere. As if I'm not already facing _enough_ of a problem, my personal demons have finally come out to play. Movement in front of me drags my attention back to the wraith, who seems to have grown _bigger_ during the time I wasn't looking. And suddenly I can see what it's been so carefully guarding beneath its tattered, filmy edges.

The body of a young child lies motionlessness at its nonexistent feet.

Tangled black hair. Sodden clothes, small bare feet and a white hand just visible in the dim light.

" _Mickie!_ " I shriek, before I can stop myself. The wraith's full attention is instantly fixed on me. It unfolds itself, grows even taller, seems to swell with threatening intent and I do my best to bury into the wall behind me. No wonder it hasn't attacked me yet. It's already found a victim. And by the looks of it, it's not about to give her up without a fight.

I close trembling hands around the walking stick, grip it tightly in sweaty fists. I force my quaking body to stand taller, lock my knocking knees together lest they give out entirely. My gut churns with a myriad of emotion; terror, fury, and hopelessness. I hold my weapon outward—a poor excuse of a longsword—take one faltering step toward the wraith. Then another. The eyes in the forest wait, for once silent as they watch me face down the bigger threat. But not for long.

The wraith unfurls itself further and _hisses._ I falter and the forest titters mockingly in response. The goading burns through me, fans the simmering anger and feeds me the strength to take another step. Then another. I have to. Mickie _needs_ me.

I'm barely three feet away, well within the creature's striking distance should it decide to lunge, when an immense force abruptly slams into me from out of nowhere and knocks me clear off my feet. A brief, terrorizing flight, a painful crash, and I lay spread-eagle on the ground, the breath knocked clean out of me for the umpteenth time as I dazedly wonder what the hell just _hit_ me. I slowly raise my head to look around.

The very _last_ thing I expect to see is a horse right where I'm pretty sure there had not been a horse before.

It stands only a few feet away, an abnormally large _,_ pitch-black creature with a mane and tail grown long and wild, shining with dark light like an oil slick. It impatiently stamps coal-black hooves the size of dinner plates and its eyes… I cringe back when I see its eyes. They hold the dark, bloody hue of a garnet, shining with feral intent. And when it opens its muzzle to release a piercing whinny, long, pointed fangs glisten. I squawk at the sight of those teeth and scramble away, and that's when I belatedly notice the tall, dark rider astride the horse's back.

At the sight of him I nearly scream. He's dressed entirely in black and cloaked in a great, hooded cape that seems to suck all the light out of the air. A pale, pointed face glows eerily beneath the shadow of his cowl and the sight of it freezes the breath in my throat as a dim memory begins to sink its icy fingers into my brain.

Without a word or so much as a glance in my direction, the rider dismounts with preternatural grace and glides toward the wraith-creature that hasn't moved from its place, hovering over my sister's body. He's so _tall_ , but his steps make no sound as he moves in. The wraith clearly senses a threat, for it slowly draws back from my sister even as a warning hiss escapes. Undeterred, the rider continues; a metallic rasp and suddenly he holds a glittering sword that looks almost as long as I am tall. It must have been heavy, but he holds it as if it weighs nothing. Then he speaks, but I can't understand the words because the language is as alien as it is beautiful. It brings to mind the sound of water rippling over a rocky streambed and the rustle of wind through a forest. Dark and elemental and wild. And so horribly, horribly _familiar_ that every hair on my body prickles with the sound of it.

Whatever he says, the wraith doesn't like it. It draws itself up, seems to swell as it had before, as if drawing all the shadows into itself. It releases a shriek that sends chills shivering up and down my spine, makes me want to burrow into the dirt and hide.

But the rider is not at all intimidated. He lunges, so fast that my eyes barely register the movement. The sword flashes once and the wraith releases another hair-raising scream, flows away from my sister as it hisses and mutters oddly in a strange, guttural tongue that makes my head hurt. I clap my hands over my ears to drown it out. The strange words have no effect on the rider. He presses his advantage, slashes at the creature repeatedly, attempting to maim or kill, but it's even faster than the rider and dodges easily. Finally, though, it seems to give up. With a final scream of fury that nearly makes my teeth rattle, it turns and flees into the forest. The underbrush rustles faintly in the wake of its passing but the watching eyes have long since vanished, scared off by the battle.

It takes some effort, but I finally remember how to breathe again and struggle to my knees. I have no idea what to do next. The goblins and the wraith might be gone, but the rider and his mount still remain and I'm not about to trust that I'm out of the woods just yet.

A slight movement and my gaze instantly snaps toward my sister, who finally begins to stir. Relief nearly makes me collapse again but I force myself to crawl toward her. Walking, at this moment, is completely out of the question. My legs contain all the strength of wet noodles, except where they end at my feet, which feel like two burning blocks of lead attached at the ankles. "Mickie!" My voice is little more than a hoarse whisper. "Michaela, _wake up_." I blink back the hot tears that burn behind my eyes. Now isn't the time. Better to save the hysterical breakdown for after I get us both home again.

A booted foot steps into view, brings my clumsy progress to an abrupt halt. My gaze travels slowly up the tall, foreboding presence looming over me, so close that the folds of his cloak almost brush my nose. The deep cowl has fallen back to reveal his face and the full sight of my alleged savior completely steals what little remains of my breath.

That face. I'd know that face _anywhere_ , glistening like a pearl, a confusing disorder of shadow and light trapped within an expressionless, cold visage. It's haunted my nightmares for ten years. And I hadn't even realized that, after all this time, I'd started to believe I would never actually _see_ it again. Until now.

But time must have diminished my memories somewhat, because he's even bigger than I recall. If I was standing he'd dwarf me and I'm not a short person. His hair looks as black and glossy as a crow feather, flows over his shoulders in a silky fall held back from burning silver eyes by a silver circlet around his head, studded with red gems. Poking through the glossy strands, I glimpse the long, pointed tips of his ears.

" _You,_ " I whisper, just before my vision washes with light-sparked gray and my consciousness fades to nothing.


	7. Six

Nothing drives a person to full awareness quite as fast as the hot, putrid stench of rotting meat wafting over their face. I come awake, choking and coughing, only to find myself face-to-fang with the huge black horse, who snuffles around my head like a curious puppy. It must like whatever it smells, because it promptly grabs a mouthful of my long hair and chomps down.

" _Kyaaaaaaahhhhhhh!_ "

My shriek of terror startles even me. The monster horse instantly drops my hair, rears with a startled snort as it shakes its head. Bloody eyes roll as it backs away and sleek, powerful muscles bunch. It gives a mighty leap, easily clears the wall and vanishes from sight. I gape after it for a few moments, flabbergasted, as it slowly dawns on me that I've somehow ended up on the wrong side of that wall, _inside_ the enchanted garden.

"That was most certainly uncalled for. You've frightened him."

I jump in surprise, my attention instantly dragged to the fountain in the center of the garden. And there I find the shadow man, elegantly perched atop the wide rim of the basin. He sits perfectly motionless, almost smothered in his great black cloak. So still that I hadn't even noticed him, even though he looks like a stray shadow caught out in broad daylight.

" _I_ frightened _him_?" I manage to squeak around the fear clogging my throat.

"Isolese was merely curious. He would not harm you."

I glance down at the small pile of silvery-white on the ground, reach to run my fingers over my head as a frown twitches my lips. There's definitely a noticeable chunk of hair missing from the back. "Tell that to my _hair_ ," I grumble. I gather my courage to meet his haunting eyes, do my best to push down the terror. He can probably smell fear. Hell, he probably _feeds_ on it or something. "Where's my sister?" I demand with as much calm as I can muster.

He shifts, sweeps the fall of midnight fabric aside to reveal Michaela's motionless form at his feet.

My heart slams in my throat. "What's _wrong_ with her?"

"She is unharmed. She merely sleeps." His silver gaze holds a certain amount of shrewdness and I know I'm not fooling him with my fake bravado. But if putting on a brave face is the only way to help my sister, what choice do I have?

"So, will you please wake her up?" I ask, trying for courtesy.

"In time."

I worry a lip, considering. Then frown as a thought occurs. "You … didn't kill me."

"No."

"You didn't kill her, either."

"So it appears."

 _Now_ I'm just confused. "Why?"

He shrugs. "I saved her from the Soul Wraith. Her life is now mine to keep or discard as I choose."

I'm not so sure I like the sound of that. I try to stand, only to grunt in pain and immediately drop to my ass again when my wounds burn like I'd just stepped into a bed of fire. I bite my lip to hold back an involuntary whimper, determined not to show him how much I hurt. Showing any kind of weakness to a predator is just all sorts of stupid. "Well," I finally manage, "would you kindly choose to wake my sister up and show us how to get home? Our father is probably really worried by now and—"

"You are free to go where you wish," he cuts in, waves a hand toward a silver gate set into the wall. My jaw drops; I _know_ that wasn't there before. "There is a path. Follow it and it will lead you back to your forest. But do not stray from the path."

A path? I frown, suspicious. Doesn't it matter that we'd gotten here through a lake? I attempt to slide my way toward my sister, only to find it blocked when his cloak settles over her body. "What're you doing?" I snap.

"I said _you_ are free to go. The child shall remain with me."

" _What?_ " I must have heard him wrong.

"Begone from my garden, maiden." He dismisses me with a regal wave of his hand.

I gape at him, stunned and more than a little pissed off. "Are you _seriously_ suggesting I just leave Michaela behind?"

He looks at me as if I'd just asked the stupidest question in the world.

I narrow my eyes and stare him down. "There is _no way_ that's gonna happen."

An arrogant quirk of one slender black brow. "Do you challenge my claim to her life?" His voice sounds very soft and vaguely threatening.

I straighten up the best I can from my subservient position, determined to show him up. "Damn straight, I do!"

An unexpected smile flits across his mouth. "You have more courage than expected, maiden." He sounds almost impressed.

I grit my teeth. If he hasn't noticed my sweating palms or the way my entire body trembles with minute shivers, I'm not about to enlighten him. "What do you need with her, anyway?" I hate that my voice sounds almost whiny. It completely undermines the confidence I'm aiming for. "She's just a little kid! What could you possibly do with her?"

He shrugs, unconcerned. "Mortal children amuse me. I lack intelligent companionship. Perhaps I shall keep her as a pet."

"P-pet!" I glower. "She's not a puppy!"

His lips twitch, ever-so-slightly. "Then, perhaps a servant shall be more suitable. My home is large and rather untidy. A maid would be quite useful."

"Ha! This kid can't even clean her own room! She always tries to shirk out of her chores. She's a lousy dishwasher and don't let her _near_ an oven unless you want your house to burn down. She'd be a terrible maid," I hasten to dissuade him.

His head tilts to the side, a lock of hair slithers over one shoulder like a shining snake. "Then perhaps," he intones softly, "she is worth nothing more than a meal for my mount. Isolese has not fed recently. He does enjoy tender young flesh."

I nearly gag as I recall the long, pointed teeth glinting in the monster horse's slavering mouth, the stench of its breath on my face. "Look, what was the point of saving her from that soul-wraith-thing if you're only going to kill her anyway?" Maybe common sense will work where appealing to his sense of mercy doesn't.

"The Soul Wraith does not consume the flesh of its prey. It consumes the very essence, which is a far worse kind of death. Should I have left you both to the creature, instead?"

"At the moment, I'm thinking yes." My nails dig painfully into my palms as I clench my fists, furious that I'm just as helpless now as I was ten years ago. This creature already took my mother from me. I can't let him take my only sister, as well. Dad would _never_ recover if he lost Mickie, too. And he'd never forgive me for letting it happen.

"Look, can't you _compromise_?" I beg, somewhat desperately. "Isn't there some kind of a … a trade, or a challenge … or _something_? Aren't you a faerie?" He certainly looks like one. "Don't you people _like_ stuff like that?"

He remains silent as he regards me for long moments, face impassive. Just as I'm really starting to squirm, he asks softly, "So, Gabriella, you love this child, do you not?"

My name rolls sensually from his tongue and I freeze from the shock of hearing it. "H-how do you know my name?" I never told him, I'm _sure_ I didn't.

"I know many things. And you have not answered my question."

"Sh-she's my baby sister," I sputter. "Of course I l-love her."

"And you would do anything to help her, would you not?"

I hesitate as I belatedly sense the trap I'd just hurled myself into. "Of course I would," I whisper as defeat settles about my shoulders, weighing them like a lead cloak.

A dark cunning glows in silvery eyes as the shadow man rises from his seat and glides to me. He kneels before me, draws so close that I can almost taste his breath, warm and sweet like spices and honey. "Perhaps," he murmurs, and his deep voice shivers over my ear, "you are the only one who can save her."

I stare over his shoulder, fix my eyes on the canopy of trees ringing the garden. His unearthly beauty overwhelms me and his proximity kicks my heart into a panicked gallop. I have no idea how to respond to this and my thoughts scatter like so many leaves in a harsh storm. "O-okay, I get it." I force the words through my dry throat. "I h-have to take some sort of a t-test or something, right?" Because, obviously, he'll force me to do something horrible and quite possibly life-threatening in order to win back my sister's freedom. Isn't that how all the stories go? I wish more than anything that this is only one of those stories. Because a dwarf or a talking fox popping up to give the heroine a few pointers would be most welcome right about now.

At the very least, all I'd have to do to end this is close the damned book. Simple and effective.

But wishful thinking never did get anyone anywhere. The shadow man almost looks pleased as he reaches out to gather a lock of my hair in his palm, allows it to slide through his fingers before raising it to press to his lips.

I can't help the sharp breath I suck in as all the blood promptly rushes to my face. I'm actually a little dizzy for a moment.

"I offer you this," he murmurs. He looks far too amused for my liking. "I shall accept a trade. A life for a life. Your sister shall go free in exchange for your promise to remain in her place."

I hesitate as I gather my scattered thoughts, trying to see beyond his words. It seems way too simple. There must be some kind of a trick involved. "So … you want to feed _me_ to your horse, instead?" Perhaps I should have been more specific on how I wanted to die. Being devoured by a carnivorous farm animal isn't exactly first choice.

At my accusation he actually _smiles_ , a genuine smile that makes me blush even harder. It isn't fair! Creatures this evil shouldn't be _allowed_ to smile like that! "Your promise, Gabriella." He completely disregards my question. "Your life for your sister's, mine to keep or discard as I choose."

I think back over the past twenty-four hours—Has it really only been that long? It feels like so much longer!—and my shoulders weigh heavier with the realization of the game I've been unwittingly playing this entire time. From the very moment Mickie first spotted the animal in the forest, the one Abby claimed was a horse. He'd tried then to lure my sister away and failed. So he'd gotten her at the Lake, instead. All because I'd been careless. I hadn't watched her well enough.

Only, it isn't really _her_ he's been after. Somehow, I know this as sure as I know my own name. "You never wanted Michaela," I mumble aloud. "I've been your prey this whole time. She was just the bait."

He doesn't answer, of course. I don't need one, anyway. I'd been thoroughly caught. But at the very least, I can make sure he never bothers anyone again. "Okay." I irritably blink away more tears. "I promise I'll stay with you, but you can't _ever_ go near my father or sister again. Or anyone else in my family, either!" Not that I have anyone other than them, but one day Mickie will have a family of her own and I'm not about to risk this guy showing up to torment her or her future children.

A single nod is his answer. Without a word, the shadow man stands and gathers up Michaela. She looks so _tiny_ cradled in his arms. I shiver uncontrollably as memories of the _other_ time he'd held her threaten to break free.

Isolese is suddenly there and the shadow man drapes my sister's unconscious form across the wide, unsaddled back. "Take this child back to her village. Leave her safely where she may be found," he commands.

My eyes go wide. "Wait, you're making _that_ thing take her back? How do I know it won't try to eat her on the way? And how is she supposed to hold on?"

"Isolese has never allowed a rider to fall from his back." The shadow man sniffs with vague contempt. "Do not compare him to a mere horse; you insult him by doing so."

"That's supposed to make me feel better?"

"The child shall not be harmed," he repeats, impatient. "There are many farms bordering your village. There should be game enough to satisfy his hunger."

He gestures. Isolese snorts and leaps over the wall and away into the darkness. I watch them vanish and think of the farmers who will probably wake up to fields of savaged livestock. I can't feel sorry for them. After all, how can a bunch of stupid cows and sheep compare to my sister? Just another tragic accident in Pine Valley, although I suspect the villagers will have a field day trying to figure this one out. There will probably be enough rumours to satisfy the gossip-mongers for the next couple of decades, at least. And when I don't come back, they might even believe I got devoured along with the cows or something. But I try not to think of that because I'm still not so sure it won't happen.

The shadow man's eyes rest heavy on me and I take a deep breath, turn to face him with resignation. "Remember your promise," he says softly. "You are mine now."

"I'll remember," I snap. "Just so long as you remember _yours_."

He leans over me and his pale gray hands cradle my face. They're strangely cool and I want to cringe away. With his oddly-shaded skin, he reminds me too much of a corpse. Despite that, his touch feels surprisingly gentle, palms and fingers soft against my cheeks.

"Then, with this oath, I bind thee," he murmurs. He adds something else in his own strange, rippling language, voice low and hypnotic. Despite myself, I feel my body slowly relax, my thoughts going hazy and soft around the edges. The fear recedes to a dull, detached place in the back of my head and I think he must be using some kind of a spell before his lips are suddenly on mine. They feel so, so soft as he kisses me, gentle and coaxing. An odd sort of tingling starts in my mouth and flows down, stretches out, grows lighter and warmer as it unfurls through my veins and bones and skin. It chases down my pain, smothers it beneath the most delicious sense of healing and comfort. For a moment, I feel another heartbeat, another presence entwined with mine. In a detached sort of way I want to feel revolted. I know I _should_ feel violated and all sorts of scared, but I can't.

The kiss ends far too soon and it can't end soon enough. Then my world tilts as the shadow man lifts me into his arms. I want to struggle—his nose is in perfect proximity with my fist—but my body feels too heavy and I suddenly can't keep my eyes open. They slip closed against my will and I drift into deep, exhausted slumber


	8. Seven

I'm dragged back to consciousness by a hot, suffocating weight over my entire body. I struggle to open my eyes, scrub sleep grit from the corners as I attempt to sit up. The heavy blanket smothering me falls to my waist and cool air rushes in, chasing the heat away. I shiver and cross my arms, touch long, soft sleeves and discover that my torn-up clothes have been replaced with a filmy white nightgown.

This realization wakes me up fast. What happened to my clothes? And … why don't I _hurt_ anymore? I experimentally touch my bruised face. The dull ache is gone and my skin feels normal, not hot and swollen. I manage to extract my feet from the thick white quilt to find them also perfectly clean and completely healed. There isn't even a scar. The implications of this disturb me. Who cleaned and changed and healed me while I was dead to the world?

Okay, well… It would probably be best to think about all of _that_ later, because I'm pretty sure I don't want to know the answer just yet. Instead, I focus on my surroundings and it slowly dawns on me that I'm _enshrouded_ with white. It's like I'm stuck in the middle of a cloud or something. Huge, fluffy cushions that smell strongly of feathers sink under my weight. All around me, long draperies as diaphanous as the nightgown I'm wearing flutter softly when my movements stir the air. Soft light diffuses through the fabric in a hazy white glow.

The cushions are piled onto a large, round platform that looks like the same stone the garden wall had been made of. Glistening white posts stand at evenly-spaced intervals, etched with flowers and leafy designs. Around the posts twine silver vines that branch into a graceful arch over the dais, weaving themselves into an elegant filigree lattice over which the swaths of silk fall in graceful sweeps to the floor. The silver canopy over my head has the appearance of flowering ivy and the whole setup reminds me of a huge, elaborate birdcage big enough to fit four or five people comfortably inside. I can even glimpse two or three little silver finches hiding among the blossoms, so intricately crafted that they almost look alive. It looks like something straight out of a story; it certainly brings to mind thoughts of fairy queens and bowers and all that _Midsummer Night's Dream_ stuff.

Uneasy, I crawl to the edge of the dais, paw at the veil until I find an opening and cautiously draw it aside to peek beyond, not sure what to expect. What I find is a large, empty room that's just as colorless as my strange bed. I let my legs dangle over the dais and bury my cold toes into a white, furry rug spread over the floor. It's the size of a bear but the fur feels as soft as rabbit or chinchilla. A really _big_ chinchilla.

That aside, I have no idea where I am. Or how I got here. My brain's a little fuzzy on the details. Or maybe I'm just deliberately _not thinking_ about them because doing so will cause my wavering composure to completely disintegrate. As long as I don't think about _who_ brought me here, I can pretend that I'm not scared out of my wits. My little sister is safe ( _I hope_ ) and that's the only thing that should matter right now.

I sit for several long minutes and stare blankly at the floor as I try to decide what to do. The _logical_ thing would be to get up and start looking for a way out. Although that's probably a pointless task. Elegant as it looks, I'm pretty sure it's still a prison. If there's a door (and I can't see one from this angle) it's probably locked. Besides, I don't really want to leave my little tent. It's light and airy and closed off from … everything. It might be a totally false sense of security, sure, but right now I'll take whatever I can get. I consider my options. It doesn't take long; I don't have that many to choose from. With a resigned sigh, I force myself to crawl out of the nest and explore my cell.

It's very large and appears circular with gently-curving walls. No corners or sharp angles to speak of. A huge, shallow pit in the floor draws my immediate attention. It stretches clear under the wall and turns out to be a kind of fireplace with a deep, rounded hearth. Silk cushions circle the pit and I guess the edge is meant to serve as a bench of sorts. Kind of silly to put silk cushions in such a place, though, what with all the soot and everything.

Not that there's any soot in it now. There isn't even a fire. The hearth looks as immaculate as the rest of the room and it makes me wonder if it's ever been used.

I also wonder where the lightsource is coming from. There's gotta be one, given the very noticeable lack of windows in the room. So far I've seen nothing in the way of lamps or lanterns. No wall sconces. Not so much as a candlestick. Yet the room is illuminated well enough to see by, so… On a whim I glance at the ceiling, which arches high into a graceful dome.

Ah. There it is.

A large, glowing, hazy-white sphere pulses right in the center of the dome, like a giant light bulb, only this light isn't contained in a glass shell. It's got to be some kind of magic that's holding it together and keeping it lit. Maybe I ought to feel a lot more … wonder or astonishment or something at being faced with genuine magic, like the kind you only read about in fairytales. But after what I've just gone through—what I've _been_ going through for the past ten years—I can't seem to feel more than weary resignation.

Yes. I am trapped inside a magic cell, spirited away by the one creature I've spent half my life both hating and fearing, with no possible hope of ever making it home again.

There. I said it. I am in _deep shit_.

I lower my gaze and start to pace the room again. There isn't much to look at. Aside from the bed, the room is pretty empty. No furniture, no colorful pictures to break up the continuous monotony of the wall… Oh, but _there's_ a set of long, white velvet drapes nearly camouflaged against it! So I've got at least one window, after all.

Unless maybe it's that door I've been looking for…?

I hopefully draw back a drape and am met with immediate disappointment. My first guess had been correct; it's a very tall and wide window with a deep cushioned seat. The window itself is stained glass, the first bit of actual color I've seen in this place. I struggle to fully open the long drapes and when they're sufficiently out of the way, I walk backwards until I get a clear view of the picture.

Only, it isn't really a picture so much as random slivers and circles and blocks in various shades of blue, green, purple and clear glass. Brown and black fleck some of the panes for added color. It's pretty but doesn't really look like much of anything. Isn't stained glass supposed to depict stories or something?

I crawl onto the high window seat and attempt to peer outside through one of the clear pieces. It's useless, though. It's too dark on the other side and the glass is thick and rippled, like glass used to be before someone perfected the art of making it smooth and flawless.

The moon shines through the window, casts cool, silvery-white light through the glass and casts rippled patterns clear across the floor. Despite the magical glow-ball lighting the room, the patterns show clearly against the white stone and from my higher vantage point I realize that they do form a picture, after all.

It looks like a stream. The varying shapes and shades all blend together to create an unusual mosaic of light and shadow that reminds me of water rippling across the floor. The longer I study it, the more I imagine I can actually see the flow of the water, the small black and brown pebbles lining the streambed … even the silvery flash of little fish darting through fronds of underwater plants. I close my eyes and shake my head to clear the strange vision.

Just a trick of the light. Probably caused by tree branches swaying in front of the window or something. But as I pace the length of the mosaic to study the shifting shapes, my foot lands in the edge of the light stream and I actually _feel_ cold water running over my toes. I screech in shock and hop back hurriedly. My foot remains dry but I _know_ what I felt. So much for tricks of the light! "Creepy, creepy, _creepy_ ," I mutter to myself, backing away.

I find a tall bookcase against the wall near the window. It's a beautiful case, all graceful curves and flowering vines that mimic the canopy over the bed. Only this looks like it's been molded entirely of glass. Even its long, thin shelves are glass, but the case houses a variety of metal knickknacks whose weight would definitely shatter glass shelves. I touch a leafy vine. It's cool and smooth. Then, in a moment of defiance, I press down hard on a leaf, expecting it to snap right off. It doesn't budge.

Huh. So, not glass, then. Some kind of crystal, maybe? But even that would break with enough pressure applied. So maybe the bookcase is made of magic, too.

I take a closer look at the objects on the shelves. Most of them appear to be toys. Like those antique wind-up toys, except these aren't made of tin. They're all gold and silver and some of them even have embedded gemstones. I touch a small silver cat with emeralds for eyes. Beside it sits a golden dog with a ruby-studded collar. A life-size gold and silver quail perches above them on another shelf. I pick it up, heft it to test its weight. It feels solid and heavy in my hands. A good four pounds, at least. Perfect.

I turn back to the window and hoist the metal bird in one hand like a shot, prepared to hurl it right through the pretty stained glass. If there isn't a door in this room, I'm just going to have to _make_ one.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Shrieking in surprise, I drop the quail. It lands on the stone floor with a solid clunk, barely missing my toes. I'm honestly surprised it didn't just put a crack in the floor. It certainly would've put one in my foot!

"You klutz. You broke it!"

Another yelp escapes as I whirl to search the room for the intruder, but there's nobody in sight. I circle the bed, which is the center of everything. Nothing. A sudden chill shoots up my spine and I think of the glowing eyes in the forest. Had my invisible stalkers managed to follow me _here_ , too?

I shake my head. No, it can't be them. None of them ever _spoke_ to me before. Which means it's something else. "H-hello?" I venture. "Is anyone there?"

Silence.

I worry my lip, considering. Then, bending to retrieve the (now-dented) quail, I heave back again to let it fly at the window.

"Didn't I just _say_ don't do that?"

The quail again lands noisily as I screech and spin another full circle in a useless attempt to find whoever it is that's _talking_ to me. It sounds like a girl. Or maybe a child. Another hostage like myself? "Who are you?" I snap. "Why are you hiding from me?"

"I'm not hiding, you dunce. You just aren't _looking_ hard enough."

My gaze snaps up, to the top of the bed.

And there she is.

She crouches like a scrawny gargoyle atop the canopy, perched with arms folded under her chin and knees tucked neatly under those. I can't even begin to guess how she's keeping her balance like that. The canopy dome is steep and there's no way a person wouldn't slide right off of it, assuming they didn't just fall straight through the wide spaces in the silver frame to the bed beneath.

She's the strangest-looking girl I've ever seen and, coming from _me_ , that's saying something. Long, pale hair that might've been blonde. Or gray. Or no color at all. The same with her eyes. And her skin. And … _everything_. And the more I stare, the more I realize that I'm not looking _at_ her so much as _through_ her. As if she's there but … not.

If all the color had been sucked out of me, it's like all the … _essence_ had been sucked out of _her_ , leaving nothing except a pale, sad wisp of shadow behind.

"Are you a … ghost?" I whisper, too startled by the sight of her to even consider being scared.

Rather than answer, the girl merely stands, takes two dainty steps forward and drops off the edge of the canopy. She doesn't plummet. She floats. Like a dandelion puff. Her tattered clothes and cornsilk hair flow around her as if she's swimming through the air. She pauses to hover in front of my face and examines me with an expression that can only be described as haughty.

"If I was a ghost, would I be able to do _this_?"

She reaches to give my cheek a vicious pinch.

That _hurts._ I squeal in shock and immediately try to shove her away, but I don't expect my hands to pass _through_ her. The force of my movements causes me to lose my balance, pitch forward and fall straight through her body on my way to the floor. It feels like hitting a patch of fog, cool and damp. Then my knees meet unforgiving stone with a hard crack and the pain of impact makes me screech. I flip over to glare up at her, hoping I just splattered her molecules all over the walls, only to find that she'd vanished. Good riddance.

My knees throb and I can practically feel the bruises already forming. And after I'd just gotten all healed up and everything, too. I growl in frustration and smack my balled-up fists against the floor. "A simple no would've sufficed!" I yell at nobody.

Disembodied laughter makes me jump before the obnoxious sprite replies, "Yes, but that wouldn't have been _nearly_ so much fun!"

As tempted as I am to unleash my tongue and my temper and every vile curse word I'd ever heard uttered, I bite my lip until the boiling rage dies into a more manageable simmer, climb to my feet to test the damage to my knees. Luckily, the ridiculous nightdress I'm wearing had provided enough cushioning to keep me from breaking or dislocating a kneecap or two. They hurt, but I can walk. Small favors, I guess.

With nothing else to do, I continue to explore. Unfortunately, there's nothing else to see. I open a white wardrobe (empty) and examine the hearth for hidden doors. No luck. The shape of the room makes me wonder if I'd been put in a tower like some damsel in distress. Which I am, I guess, although it irks me to admit it. Still, it gives me the idea to check the floor for trap doors that might lead to a ladder or staircase.

Nada.

I yank the fur rug away from the bed.

Nope.

I lift the bed skirt to check under the bed, only to find a solid block of stone in my way. There goes that idea.

I huff a frustrated sigh. Then, in a burst of inspiration I stalk to the light-river and jump right in.

Cold water immediately closes over my bare feet, making me shriek at the shock of it. It's like standing in an icy stream just after winter thaw, but my feet and the trailing hem of my clothes remain totally dry. Ignoring the instinctive need to bolt from the weird illusion, I determinedly walk from one end of the picture to the other, then back again, hoping for … I don't know what, exactly. To stumble through an invisible doorway? To trip a hidden lever that will open some sort of passage out of this place? A magical bolt of lightning that will zap me home?

Unfortunately, none of that happens. All I end up with is numbed feet and a case of the shivers. Finally, cold, tired and at my wit's end, I decide to call it a night. There's always tomorrow to figure it out. Hell, I've got the rest of my life to figure it out!

I stumble toward the bed, pause to consider the huge piles of mattresses and pillows and blankets piled on it. Would there be an escape beneath all of _that_? I briefly consider tearing the whole thing apart to find out, decide I'm too exhausted to care at the moment, and instead make a running leap into the middle of the bed and nestle down among the softness. In no time at all, I'm fast asleep.

* * *

When I wake up again, muzzy and disoriented like I always feel whenever I sleep too heavily or for too long, the first thing I see when I poke my head out of the tent is a door in the wall.


	9. Eight

It takes a full minute for me to blink, I'm staring at the door so hard. Finally, I squeeze my eyes shut and grind the heels of my palms into them.

Count to twenty.

Count a second time.

By my third countdown, my eyeballs have begun to ache from the pressure and colored spots dance across my lids.

I lower my hands, slowly open my eyes and, as soon my vision clears, dare to look at the wall again.

The door remains exactly where it was; a large, white panel surrounded by a silver-gilded frame.

It motivates me to finally crawl out of the bed. I approach slowly, afraid that if I move too quickly I might somehow spook the door back into hiding. I'm still not fully convinced it's actually _there_.

Three feet away, I stop as a new problem presents itself.

It's a door without a doorknob. Just the frame, the wooden panel and no apparent way to _open_ said panel. "Aw, _come on_!" I cry, frustrated. "Is this supposed to be a joke? Ah hah hah! That's hilarious! Can you _let me out_ now?"

Silence, although I half-expect that ghost-girl to suddenly show up and start laughing at me again. I throw out my hands with a dramatic swirl of puffed sleeves. "Open sesame!" I command in my most booming voice.

No response. Well, it was worth a shot.

Maybe manners would work. "Please open? I'd very much like to leave this room," I request politely.

Nope.

"Open up, you jerk!"

With another frustrated growl I kick the door, unfortunately forgetting about my bare toes. The resulting pain makes me squeal and hop around on one foot as I attempt to rub the pain from the other. Which is instantly forgotten the moment I notice the door swinging inward on silent hinges to reveal a hallway on the other side.

I drop my foot in shock. Then scowl. "Very funny."

I wish I knew how to appropriate some suitable clothes around here. A nightgown is _hardly_ decent attire for escaping in, but one of the bed blankets folded over serves as a makeshift robe. It's too long and drags behind me, but at least it's warm, which is good because the hallway is friggin' _cold_. Tall, arched windows with no glass allow a cool wind to blow inside, rustling gauzy curtains and sending a few skeletal leaves skittering across the floor. It isn't long before my feet are chilled, the stone damp and cold even through the dusty, threadbare rug that runs the length of the hall.

Unlike the room I just left, the rest of this place looks to be in a sad state of disrepair. Dust covers everything; I can literally see the trail I leave behind as I walk, the pristine white blanket now coated dingy brown from the grime. Well, at least I'll have an easy path to follow if I need to turn around. Less chance of getting lost that way.

It's dark in the hall. A few lit sconces line the wall at intervals, but the torchlight doesn't extend very far. It gives the scene a creepy, gothic sort of vibe. The open windows allow moonlight to filter in on the other side to chase back shadows and I wonder why it's still nighttime. The sun definitely should have risen by now, right? Or maybe my sense of time is even more screwed up than I thought. How long _have_ I been stuck here, anyway?

Even more concerning … where the hell is everyone else? I've deduced by now that I'm stuck in a castle or maybe a really big mansion. But don't mansions and castles generally require staff to maintain the upkeep? Aside from that weird see-through girl, I have yet to see another living soul inside this place. It gives me the very disturbing feeling that I've been abandoned here.

I continue to wander without any clear sense of where I'm going. The hallway stretches on with no end, windows on one side and blank wall on the other. Every once in awhile I stumble past a closed door. I pause in front of each one and test the handles (of course _these_ doors all have handles). Most of them are locked, but on occasion one or two creak open, inviting me to poke my head inside.

The results are disappointing. Nothing but darkened rooms full of shabby, dust-coated furniture. Hardly anything of interest. I contemplate stepping inside once or twice to poke around a bit until I get a glimpse of an exceedingly hairy spider that's at _least_ the size of my hand scuttling under a bookcase. It quickly puts an end to _that_ idea.

After slamming the door shut and turning to move on, the unexpected sight of a person walking down the deserted hall ahead of me brings me up short, startled near out of my wits. At first I think it's _him_ , but on closer inspection I see the glow of blonde hair, not black. I'm also pretty sure it's a female.

I take a moment to recover, then hasten forward with a loud, "Hey!"

The woman doesn't so much as hesitate, continuing on her way as if she didn't even hear me. I gather my blanket-robe and dart ahead, hoping to catch up. It's hard to see her in the dimness but she looks to be dressed in elegant finery; a long gown that drags the floor behind her, equally long hair swept up in an elaborate style and draped with veils and ribbons.

Another faerie? She's sure dressed like one. She looks like she's on her way to a party or something. Or a meeting with the shadow man?

"Wait up!" I call again, just as she turns a corner. I arrive just a few moments after, slightly out of breath from my impromptu sprint down the hall.

Only to find that she's gone. Poof. Completely vanished. Not so much as a trace.

I gape down the hallway, just as empty as it's always been. Then heave a tired sigh and crouch down on my haunches, bury my fingers into my hair. "Don't freak out," I mutter to myself. "It's not like this is the first time you've ever hallucinated." Given what I've been through in the past twenty-four hours, I'd be amazed if I haven't been driven completely kooky dooks by now. I was halfway there already; surely being kidnapped by a scary faerie man and dumped into an abandoned castle to starve to death is incentive enough to skip cheerfully 'round the bend.

At the thought of starving, my stomach chooses to remind me just how empty it is with a long, loud rumble of complaint. It doesn't growl, it _snarls_ , and I clap both arms over it with a grimace, embarrassed despite the unlikelihood of being overheard by _anybody_.

"Yeah, yeah. Tell it to someone who can _do_ something about it," I grumble, standing again.

And that's when I see The Door.

Or maybe that's Doors, plural, because I've finally reached the end of the hall and, rather than another blank wall, I'm instead greeted by a pair of huge, ornate doors that loom over me, stretching from floor to very high ceiling.

These Doors deserve their very own title, they're so amazing. Dark, polished wood set within an even darker frame, and both frame and door are carved with all sorts of fantastical images. Bracketed on each side with two sets of torches, to throw extra light on the carvings, I suppose. I move closer, trying to make out what I'm actually looking at.

Various scenes blend into each other, images of wheat fields giving way to forested landscapes. As I study it, I realize that—much like the window in my room—the closer I look, the more it looks like the scenes are … _moving_. Here, a unicorn rears up, kicking at the air. Over there, a strange-looking beast lumbers behind a copse of trees. A large serpent slowly winds its way up the frame, black tongue flicking.

Then I blink and everything is back to normal.

I shiver in a chill of goosebumps and step back. Ghost-girls and vanishing faeries are one thing, but inanimate objects twitching around like living things just sinks too far into Uncanny Valley for my taste.

Still, I'm curious to know what's _behind_ those doors. Something spectacular, no doubt.

A way out of the castle, perhaps?

That idea is enough to make me approach again. It takes a few moments of searching before I realize that, like the door to my room, there is no apparent way to open it. All right, then. Bracing myself against one of the doors, I prepare to push. A Chinese dragon snaps its wooden teeth inches from my face and I screech and leap back as it slithers behind a carved mountain. A troop of monkeys on the left howl in silent laughter and jump about, pointing at my face.

Growling under my breath, I march forward and boldly shoulder the massive door with my entire weight, fully expecting it to resist my shoves.

" _Gaak!_ " I squawk when it instead swings open quite easily, creaking on giant hinges. So easily, in fact, that I end up sailing forward to land on my hands and knees on an uncomfortably hard floor. I skid a few feet across its polished surface before coming to a halt.

"Ow." I flip over to assess the new damage. Luckily, the blanket absorbed most of the impact, but I'll probably have a nice pair of matching bruises on my knees in a few minutes. My palms had turned red but the floor is so smooth they aren't even scratched. I rub them briskly against my thighs to ease the slight sting and climb to my feet.

And that's when I catch the first whiff of food. Real, homemade, mouth-watering food. My stomach immediately starts up a long, loud series of demands to _feed it now_ and I whuff the air like a starving wolf. French toast, ham and sausage, scrambled eggs with cheese; all of my breakfast favorites. I spin around, looking for the food, and now I get my first good look at where I stand.

I stop and stare, slack-jawed, at a huge ballroom that dredges up memories of my favorite childhood fairytales. My entire _house_ can fit comfortably inside with room left over for a two-car garage and a swing set. And, just like the bedroom, this place looks immaculate, free of the grime covering everything outside.

To my left, streams of morning sunlight filter in through a row of glass doors that stretch the expanse of the wall. Through them, I see a white stone balcony with a crumbling lattice and a dark line of trees far beyond that. I take enough time to wonder exactly when the sun had risen before I spot several pillars that surround a large dancing area in the middle of the floor. I trail my fingers over leafy vines and flowers etched into the columns. They remind me of the birdcage over my bed, twining around the sides of the pillars and arching over the top to meet and weave together, forming another delicate canopy. In the center of each carved blossom rests a deep red gemstone, glinting like blood in the light. These must represent the flowers I saw in the forest garden. I wonder what they're called.

My attention is next grabbed by an even more amazing sight on the wall to my right, at the furthest end of the room. It's covered from floor to ceiling with an enormous mirror hanging in a golden frame. It's so huge that it reflects the entire room from end to end. I've never seen such a mirror before; I can't begin to imagine how much it must weigh, or the amount of strength it must have taken to lift and mount it to the wall. The frame alone, the bottom of which nearly reaches my waist, must weigh at least several tons. It's probably worth more than an entire collection of artifacts found in any museum in my world.

But there's something strange about it.

It takes a few moments to put my finger on it. And then I realize … my reflection is entirely wrong. I stare for a long, bewildered moment, unable to process what I'm seeing.

From the other side of the mirror, a girl with familiar features stares back. Her large, dark eyes have gone wide and her lips part in an astonished O. Her black-brown hair is neatly brushed, hanging in shining waves well past her shoulders. Her skin glows with light, healthy color. She wears makeup, faded jeans and my favorite blue, green, and yellow striped sweater, which she fills out way more than I ever did, with the sort of curves I only ever dreamed of possessing.

She looks like a perfectly normal teenaged girl. Like a grown-up version of Mickie.

Like the kind of girl _I_ would have been if I had never met the shadow man.

I raise my arm.

So does she.

I raise the other one and waggle my fingers, then mimic some jazz hands for good measure. She matches me movement for movement.

I stumble back three or four steps and plop onto the floor; the girl in the mirror vanishes behind the heavy gilded frame.

What in the name of Peter, Paul, and Mary is _going on_?

Gathering my tattered courage, I creep forward on hands and knees and ever-so-slowly peer over the edge of the frame. A pair of eyes meet mine from mere centimeters away, wide with disbelief. My nose touches the mirror and my heavy breaths fog the cool glass, obscuring the reflection. I reach back and pull my hair over my shoulder. It's still the same tangled mess it was when I woke up. It's also still the same washed-out silver-white it's been for the past ten years.

The black-haired girl can't be me. But the features are so similar and those are definitely my eyes. Large and dark like bruises just beginning to heal; deep, blue-black in the middle fading into rings of purplish-brown. In my dead-white face they usually take on the bizarre appearance of two black holes. In my reflection's face, with her lightly tanned skin and made up with gray shadow and black liner, they're unusual and completely beautiful. As gorgeous as they had been in my mother's face when she was alive.

I stagger back, my breath coming harsh and fast as I struggle to contain my rising anger. Tears burn behind my eyes but I refuse to let them fall. I refuse to give _him_ the satisfaction of making me cry.

I force myself to search the entire reflection of the mirror and begin to realize there are other differences aside from my own.

The glass doors in the real ballroom are shut, but in the mirror they hang open. The reflected chandeliers glitter with fractured light from hundreds of lit candelabras. In one corner, an enormous buffet has been set with silver tureens and golden platters, gem-encrusted goblets, stacks of china and linen and tableware. I whirl to look, wondering if that's the source of those delicious smells, but the real corner stands empty.

Thoroughly spooked, I glance into the mirror again, note the cushioned chairs lining the walls, colorful banners hanging from the ceiling, a platform on which strange instruments rest, waiting to be played. The candle flames flicker and gauzy drapes covering the glass doors, caught in the wake of a soft breeze I can't feel, flutter delicately. The room stands ready for a grand celebration, forever empty and waiting for … who, exactly?

I hesitantly reach out to touch the mirror again, half-expecting my hand to pass right through it. My reflection's palm meets mine on the other side, but I only feel the cold sheet of silvered glass separating us. She glares balefully at me as if it's my fault she's trapped in there, alone. The urge to cry returns and her face crumples, ever-so-slightly.

"A fascinating depiction, is it not?"

The dark, silky murmur sends me leaping forward with a startled screech, crashing roughly into the mirror before I scramble around to face the shadow man.

"W-wh-where did you _come_ from?" I manage to gasp around my pounding heart, which seems to have once again lodged itself up in my throat. I glance wildly behind me to find my other-reflection still there, now looking as thoroughly freaked-out as I feel.

 _He_ has no reflection at all. How is that possible?

"Y-you're not really a _vampire_ , are you?" I whimper.

He doesn't bother to answer, but his smile is secretive as he turns his attention back to the mirror.

Remembering his comment, I nervously stutter, "A d-depiction of what?"

"Hell, of course." He says it so simply, his captivating eyes still fixed on the mirror.

I blink, taken aback. That isn't exactly the reply I was expecting. I open my mouth, close it, open it again to proclaim in my most know-it-all voice, "That is _not_ what Hell looks like."

To my surprise, rather than anger, amusement shows as his full mouth quirks into a small smile. "Are you so certain? Have you ever been to Hell before?"

My fists clench at my sides. "Yeah. I've lived in it every day for the past _ten_ _years_ ," I snap before my brain-to-mouth filter can even think of kicking in.

His beautiful, alien face suddenly changes, expression melting into something so wistful that I have to glance away. It looks _wrong_ on him, somehow. "And I have lived it in every moment of my life," he replies softly. His hand rises gracefully to touch the surface of the mirror and it makes me wonder, suddenly, if he isn't looking at a completely different picture.

I shift uncomfortably and glance around at everything aside from him, trying to figure out why he suddenly seems so _different_. His obvious sadness, the hint of longing in his eyes, is unsettling. It almost makes me feel … _sorry_ for him.

 _Stop that, you flaming moron!_ I snarl at myself, shoving the emotions back. After everything he's put me through, pity is the very _last_ thing this asshole deserves!

"I imagine you must be hungry," the faerie says suddenly, making me jump. "Please, join me for a morning repast."

I blink at him until my brain finally catches up with his words. My eyes follow the path of his gesturing hand and focus on a small table under the flower canopy. It's set with two chairs, plates and platters and what looks like entirely too much food. I barely keep my mouth from dropping open. Now when had _that_ shown up? He must've magicked it into place while I wasn't looking.

I grudgingly follow his tall form to the table. He looks different in the morning light yet exactly the same as I remember. Ten years hasn't changed him at all. He's still so alien with those silvered eyes and the dusky gray skin that shifts like shadows beneath wind-blown trees. He's still beautiful and terrifying, but he somehow looks less dangerous and wild than he did at our last meeting. The flowing black cloak is gone. Over a white tunic and dove-gray pants that look as if they'd been painted on, he wears an iridescent robe that floats light as air around his tall frame. It flashes with color as he moves; turquoise blue, rich purple, emerald green threaded with glints of bright silver, like stars. Even his ridiculous length of hair has been tamed, braided through with red silk. The braid hangs thick and shining past his calves, the ribbon a bright splash of crimson winding through glowing ebony. A golden circlet flashes on his brow and his ears are clearly visible, tapered to long, slender points.

My fingers twitch with the sudden urge to reach out and touch one, to test if it's really as sharp as it looks.

I realize I'm openly gawping at him only after he glances over his shoulder with a little smirk, as if he'd just read my every thought.

Given that might very well be the case, I snap my mouth shut and glare at the table, try to ignore the heat I feel crawling up my face as I deliberately think every vile thought I can muster in hopes of giving his brain a good, thorough scorching. If anything reaches him, he doesn't even twitch as he lowers himself into one of the chairs.

I plop ungracefully into the other as he picks up a large chalice filled with something that smells wonderfully sweet. A matching cup sits at my place. It's so big and heavy that I need both hands to raise it, and I inhale the cloying scent of apples and honey as I bring it to my mouth.

Some sense of self-preservation must still exist inside me because it abruptly kicks in and I freeze, the cold rim of the cup pressing my lower lip. I'd just recalled a warning, something my mother told me, and I call myself all sorts of stupid for having forgotten. Still, it takes all the willpower I possess to place the chalice on the table and sit back in my chair, hands folded tightly in my lap to keep from reaching for it again.

The Shadow King glances up as he nips a bite of meat from the end of a golden fork. "Is the food not to your liking?"

"I'm sure it's fine, thank you," I reply with forced politeness.

"Then why are you not eating?"

"Because I'm not an idiot."

He sets the fork down with a deliberate movement. As if to keep himself from stabbing me with it instead.

"You are daring to insult my hospitality."

I gulp. Perhaps I shouldn't test his temper quite so openly. "Your hospitality has nothing to do with it," I assure him.

His eyes narrow. "Explain." It's not a request.

"I know the stories. My mom used to read them to me all the time before she—when I was little. I know the warnings against eating the food of … your kind."

He has the gall to look amused again, fingers laced with his chin atop them, his entire attention focused on me. "Indeed," he replies, almost warmly. "And what is the nature of such warnings?"

He's _teasing_ me, I realize, but answer anyway, "If humans eat faerie food, everything else they ever eat in their lives will taste like ash and dust. Or they end up being spelled and swept away into your world. And kept there forever, or until the faeries get sick of them and kick them out a few centuries later, where all that lost time instantly catches up and they shrivel into empty husks and die."

His head tilts to the side as a wicked glitter lights his eyes. I can practically _feel_ the bastard gloating as he says, perfectly serious, "Dire warnings, _indeed_. However, I can assure you that the rumors of humans shriveling into empty husks are completely unfounded. At worst, they go mad upon witnessing the changes a few centuries have wrought to their former lives. They cannot be blamed; I imagine being cast from Faerie into your dank, mortal world is akin to being cast from heaven and straight back into hell."

I glare. "If you're actually trying to make me feel better, you need to know that you _suck_ at it."

He chuckles softly. "Dear child, the truth of the matter is, seeing as I've already 'swept you away' into my world, such warnings are of little consequence, are they not?"

I fight the highly suicidal urge to kick him under the table. Especially since he makes a good point. Which I resent. Greatly.

"And there is," he continues drolly, "your oath to me. The promise that your life will be bound to me for as long as I choose. Be it a day, an hour, or for the rest of eternity, you cannot leave this place until I will it. Starving yourself over some silly mortal superstition is illogical and pointless. Eat."

And that, apparently, is that.

I sit, seething to myself for another few minutes, determined not to give in. He lets me alone, quietly eating his own meal. He doesn't look as if he cares whether I eat or starve to death before his very eyes, and that pisses me off even more.

But the food smells _so_ good, and I'm _so_ hungry and thirsty. And my survival instinct is viciously smacking me upside the head, demanding that I _listen_ to the powerful faerie lord who can snuff out my life with a snap of his fingers.

But what does it matter, anyway? He's already got me here, can do pretty much whatever he wants with me. Depending on what he has planned for my immediate future, dying might end up being a good thing.

My stomach releases another long snarl of complaint and the faerie doesn't even bother to hide his grin. However, his obvious amusement at my discomfort doesn't keep him from scolding, "If need be, I shall feed you myself and I promise you'll not enjoy it. I've no use for childish nonsense."

Now that stings. Twice now he's called me a child. Sure, the guy scares me half to death, but I do have my pride and now he's trampling all over it! I glare at him as, once again, my mouth disengages from my brain and takes off running. "Says the guy who enjoys terrorizing innocent girls and tossing out threats every time he doesn't get his own way. I wonder who's _really_ the childish one around here."

He stills, jaw clenched as all amusement vanishes from his face. He slowly rises from his seat to tower over me and I shrink down in my chair and do my best to not bolt from the table. "Are you quite finished?" he murmurs, his voice dangerously silky.

I bite the inside of my lip hard enough to break skin. Where has my common sense fled to, I wonder? How dare it abandon me at such a critical time! Distraction, distraction… I need one. Badly.

"Wh-where's my sister?" I blurt out.

The question indeed distracts him, just as I'd hoped. Although his deadly glare continues to bore through the top of my head, at least it isn't a steak knife. I feel slightly accomplished.

"She is where I said she would be." His coldly beautiful voice cuts through the air, chilling it even further. "No doubt she is in her own bed, sleeping as only an exhausted child can."

"And what about my father?" I dare to press. "What's going to happen when he figures out I never came home?"

"I do not believe your father is a concern of yours any longer."

"Like hell!" I explode, finally meeting his glare. "He's my father! D'ya think he's not going to worry himself sick about me? What's Mickie supposed to tell him when she wakes up, that her sister's been kidnapped by the Bogeyman?"

"You need not worry for your family," the faerie tells me softly. His voice sounds strange, holding a sort of low, rippling inflection that I've never heard before. I can feel my anger and frustration slowly drain out of me, entirely against my will. He's _glamouring_ me, I realize, and it makes me even angrier. I struggle to resist the pull, to hold on to my indignation. What makes him think he has the right to control my emotions like this?

"It is doubtful the child will remember any detail of what has occurred," he continues, completely ignoring my displeasure. "All she will know is that her elder sister has gone missing. Perhaps your family will assume you've run away from home. It is what you've been planning to do, is it not?"

I gape at him. How can he possibly know about that?

Again, it's like he reads my thoughts. "I have seen into your life," he continues. His voice is calm, almost gentle as he drives the verbal spikes home. "I have witnessed the derision and loathing of your own people against you. Do you truly believe they will mourn if their dirty little secret disappears from their prejudiced, close-minded little world?"

I stagger, unable to believe I'm hearing my own thoughts, my deepest fears, laid open like this, by the one person who is solely to blame for the hell my life has become.

I never imagined how much it would _hurt_.

I sit in complete silence for a good minute, swallowing convulsively around the growing lump in my throat. My eyes are burning again; I realize with horror that I'm about to burst into tears. To bawl in front of this monster would be the final blow to my trampled pride and he knows it. He merely stands there, waiting.

"Why'd you do it?" I somehow manage to pull myself together, but my voice refuses to come out steadily. "Why did you kill her? What did she ever do to you?" I choke, pause, and continue, "Why did you have to take her from us? We— _I_ still needed her."

His cold expression changes, momentarily softens into something resembling pity. "I cannot offer sufficient explanation for that night." He doesn't even try to pretend he has no idea what I'm talking about. "You are not yet ready to listen."

"Isn't that just an excuse? You can't even defend your own actions!" I accuse, furious.

"Eat your breakfast, regain your strength. The chambers you woke in are yours. You shall find necessaries for bathing and fresh garments prepared."

"I want my _own_ clothes." Seething, I clench my hands in my lap. When his hand unexpectedly comes to rest on my bowed head, despite myself, I jump and cringe under his touch.

"Gabriella." His deep voice is soft, slightly reproachful as if my reaction hurt him. He smooths his hand over my hair, petting it in a way that might have been soothing under different circumstances. "Will it ease your heart to know that I have no intention of harming you as long as you remain in this castle?"

As a matter of fact, it doesn't. But I don't bother telling him so.

"One thing more," he continues with a weary sigh. "In daylight you are free to wander as you choose, so long as you stay within castle grounds. Do not attempt to go beyond the walls." There's a warning in his tone. "When the sun sets, however, I request that you not leave your chambers. Under any circumstances are you to go out-of-doors, especially during the new moon."

I glare harder. Request, my ass. It's just another command, like everything else. "Do I make myself clear?" The hand in my hair tightens until I wince and I give a hasty, jerky nod to show I'm listening. He sighs again and his hand slides away. After another long moment, I realize he's left as silently as he came, and I release a long, shuddering breath as all the strength drains from my body. By some miracle, I've managed to survive this confrontation, but I don't feel particularly victorious as I stab a fork half-heartedly into a slice of meat.

The food starts to blur and waver as the tears I've been struggling to hold back all this time finally make their grand escape.


	10. Nine

I'm still at the table when the ghost girl finally makes her reappearance.

I don't know how long I've been sitting here, crying my stress out. My mother once told me that a good cry is the best medicine to wash all the gloomies away. I wonder if she deliberately left out the swollen eyes, runny nose, and hollow ache in my gut that also tends to supersede one. But, well, at least I don't feel gloomy anymore.

I don't feel much of anything, really, except maybe quietly resigned.

The girl floats down and examines me critically from an inch away, before shaking her head and tsking at me. "Don't you look a fright. What _have_ you been doing?"

"Facing reality," I snap, mopping at my eyes with the edge of my blanket.

She cocks an eyebrow at me. "My, aren't _we_ the gloomy one today."

That surprises a laugh out of me. So much for Mom's theory. "Is there anything in particular you wanted?"

"Not really." She touches down on the floor and spins a few pirouettes, her clothes and hair floating around her. The sunlight streams right through her, making her sparkle like the dust motes dancing in the air.

"You're not a faerie, are you?" I ask.

"Not as such, no." She pauses and bows gracefully to an invisible partner before starting a one-sided waltz.

"But you're not a ghost."

"Not as _you_ would think of one."

"Well, then, what are you?"

She gives a tinkling laugh. "I am what I am."

My brow furrows with annoyance. Blasted spirits and their vague non-answers. "Fine, moving on. Have you got a name?"

"Of course I do! Everyone's got a name, silly," she scoffs.

I wait with a raised eyebrow. A few seconds tick by and I finally roll my eyes. "And are you going to _tell_ me your name?"

"Why don't you guess it?" she taunts.

I narrow my eyes at her. "You have absolutely no idea what it is, do you?" She falters a step and I smirk.

"I do so!" She puffs up like an angry cat. "It's… It's…" She flounders and I can see her droop as she struggles to recall. It makes me feel sorry for her, so I decide to change the subject.

"So, are there other people here?" I ask, recalling the faerie woman I'd seen outside the ballroom. "Where is everyone?"

She blinks, head tilting to one side. "There is nobody but us. You and I and of course His Majesty."

I choke. "His Majesty?" I parrot dumbly. "Who's _that_?"

She blinks again. "The Shadow King, of course. Who _else_ would it be?"

"The Shadow … _King_?" The implications hit home like a punch to the gut. "You mean the guy who brought me here is a _king_?" I squawk, nearly sliding off my chair in shock.

"Of course he is." She snorts and looks at me like I'm the dumbest creature she's ever encountered. "This is his castle, his world."

I sit silently for a moment, trying to let it all sink in. Well … it makes a certain amount of sense, I suppose. It certainly does explain his regal bearing and his do-whatever-I-want-and-get-away-with-it attitude. "Well … _shit_ ," I exclaim, for lack of anything more astonished to say. Giving myself a mental shake, I continue, "And you're sure that there's nobody else here. No servants or courtiers? I mean, if he's a king, where are all of his subjects?"

She hesitates for the barest moment before giving a careless shrug, a mere flick of her shoulders. "There have never been subjects that I have seen. Perhaps that is part of his punishment, to rule an empty kingdom."

"Wait… _Punishment?_ " I force my jaw to close. "What did he do?" And how can anyone punish a literal king?

She sniffs. "This place is not his true home. It is the home he created when he was cast from his world. Banished from his birthright. All because he fell in love." Her face twists in displeasure. "Such troublesome creatures you mortals are. Had he not fallen in love with one he would be in his true kingdom, ruling as he was meant to!"

There's no keeping my jaw off the ground at this point. I gape, then abruptly collapse into laughter. "Impossible," I gasp through my chortles, arms clutched around my full stomach. "There's no _way_ he fell in love with anyone! I doubt he's even _heard_ of it! He's a monster!"

My hilarity is brought to an abrupt end when a sharp, burning pain suddenly rips through my scalp. The little ghost girl had grabbed two large fistfuls of my hair and was now yanking viciously, threatening to tear it out. "Take it back!" she screeches, furious. "His Majesty is _not_ a monster! _Take it back!_ "

"Okay! Okay! _I'll take it back!_ " I howl, swatting uselessly at her body. She immediately lets go after a final hard tug and floats back, her baleful glare hot enough to melt ice. I return it as I rub my stinging scalp, pissed to find several long strands scattered across the leftovers on the table. "You little jinx," I snarl. "What the _hell_ was that for?"

"Don't you dare mock His Majesty! You don't know anything about him!" she yells right back.

"Oh, I know more than I need to," I snap. "I know he killed my mom and kidnapped my sister and used her as bait to lure me here! And now I'm stuck in this place forever if I can't figure out a way to get free again! And you wonder why I think he's a monster?"

She goes silent for a long moment, studying me. Then gives a haughty toss of her hair. "I wouldn't worry about _that_ ," she sniffs. "They never last that long, the girls he brings here."

I freeze. "Girls?" I repeat. "Are you saying he's brought _other_ girls here?" I sit up straighter in my chair. "Wh-where are they?" I press. If there are other girls, maybe we can help each other. By myself, I doubt I can do anything useful. But if there are a bunch of us, banding together…

"Oh, I don't know." The ghost girl's next words instantly squash my growing hope. "They aren't _here_ anymore. Perhaps they've been taken home, or left to wander around in the wilderness for the beasts to find. Of course, they have very little sense left by the time _he's_ grown tired of them. So fragile, those girls are. They break so easily." A wicked smile spreads over her face. "I have great fun with _those_ types, playing pranks and making them scream in front of His Majesty. He gets so angry. Which only makes them more afraid, you see." She giggles. "I do wish he would bring them to play more often. It gets lonely all by myself."

I think of the abandoned lake resort at home, of all the disappearances that had happened there. Of the one girl who had mysteriously returned, completely altered. Completely insane. Had all of that been _his_ doing, too? It had never occurred to me before that I might not have been the only victim of the shadow man, that he might have been haunting Pine Valley for far longer than I could have ever imagined.

I realize the ghost girl is still hovering there, as if waiting for me to respond. I shake myself out of my stupor and grumble, "Well, why not go play with your precious king if you're so lonely? Maybe then he'd leave the rest of us silly mortals alone."

She sighs, expression melting into something resembling wistfulness. "I cannot speak with him. He cannot hear me. He cannot even _see_ me. If he could, then perhaps…" She lets the sentence dangle and I have a niggling suspicion that there's more to it. Is it possible she's in _love_ with him? Was that why she tormented those poor girls, acting out of jealous spite to keep them from having what she couldn't?

Part of me cringes in disgust at the thought of anyone loving that creature. But there's another part that can sort of … _understand_. As much as I hate him for what he's done to me, I'm not blind. I hate him but even so, his beauty takes my breath away. Anyone who saw him might easily fall for someone like the Shadow King. He's exotic and deadly, like a beautiful, poisonous flower. He frightens and beguiles with voice and eyes and power. He's living proof that the stories and legends are _real_ , and if I didn't know firsthand what sort of evil he was capable of, even _I_ might fall for him.

Luckily, I know better.

This topic is becoming increasingly uncomfortable, however, so it's time to change the subject. I chew on my lip. After a moment, I ask, "Is there some kind of a map of the castle or something?" Just in case I decide to explore. I'd been given permission, after all, but the last thing I need is to get myself lost.

"There is no need for maps. The castle will take you where you wish to go."

I scoff. "Really. And how will it do that?"

She rolls her eyes in a don't-you-know- _anything_ sort of way. "Focus on your destination and simply _walk_. You will be guided to the correct room. It is impossible to lose yourself in _this_ castle. Unless you wish for it, of course."

I consider that. Somehow, her explanation seems a little iffy to me, just a little too convenient. How am I supposed to know if she's telling the truth? Perhaps I'll wish for my room and end up in a dungeon instead? Then again, a castle with its own magical GPS doesn't make any less sense than a mirror that refuses to reflect what it's supposed to.

 _Speaking_ of which…

"So, what's up with _that_ thing?" I nod toward the mirror. "My reflection is completely skewed and the Shadow King doesn't even _have_ one. He's not some kind of a vampire, is he?"

"Silly, vampires aren't _real_ ," she scoffs.

I raise an eyebrow. "Am I the only one to find that statement completely ironic?"

She purses her lips. "It's an enchanted mirror, you know."

"Well, _that's_ obvious with a capital _duh_."

"You needn't be _rude_ about it," she sniffs, skip-floating to the mirror. She also has no reflection but, given her misty appearance, that's hardly surprising. She preens in front of it anyway, vainly fluffing her glass-like hair and tattered skirts. I restrain a snicker. She reminds me of a parakeet.

I sigh and finally stand up, stretching stiff muscles. I must have been sitting here longer than I realized. "So, why am I seeing myself in such an altered state? And why does the ballroom look different in the reflection than out here?" I press, joining her at the mirror.

"How should I know? I'm just the resident poltergeist."

"You're hilarious. No, really, does anyone who looks at it see the same thing as everyone else? Do others have no reflection?"

"The mirror is not fixed to work in any one way," she explains impatiently. "It can show someone their dreams, or show them the best and worst memories of their lives. Past, present, future; it all depends on who is looking into it, what they wish to see, and how strongly their will affects the magic. Of course, looking into the mirror and trying to manipulate its magic is dangerous. The power is strong. If you cannot control it, it might eat you alive. Not that others haven't tried." And she snaps her teeth at me in a feral grin.

"Good to know." I glance at the mirror, remembering the Shadow King's troubled expression. "What does _he_ see when he looks into it?"

She shrugs, unconcerned. "Anything he chooses. He is its creator, after all."

I consider that, watching as she primps. "What about you? Does it show you your dreams, too?"

The fingers combing through her hair still for the briefest of moments. "Of course not. I have no dreams to show," she replies, careless. Then, with a flowing movement, she's suddenly _inside_ the mirror, grinning impishly at me from the other side. Before I even have time to be startled, she turns and twines herself around my anti-reflection, sinking into it and vanishing from sight. And it starts moving, dancing and twirling about like some deranged ballerina, all by itself.

"But what need have I for dreams of my own, when I can visit those of anyone else whenever I like?" the reflection sing-songs in my voice.

"You jinx, knock it off! Get the hell outta me!" I yell, thoroughly freaked.

The wild dancing pauses and my own eyes regard me with a glittering, feral stare. "That is the second time you have called me that," my own voice proclaims, bright with amusement. "Jinx. I think I shall keep that name!"

"Yeah, whatever, just _get out_!"

Her tinkling laughter sounds again as she flows out of the mirror and right through my shivering body before blinking out of sight.

* * *

She doesn't stay gone, unfortunately. When I finally make it back to my room, she's waiting for me.

"Oh, there you are," she says as soon as I step through the door and I come to a screeching halt at the sight of her.

She's straddling the neck of a particularly large statue of an angel that I'm pretty sure wasn't there before. Its white wings span out, white arms outstretched in silent invitation, and it stands a good seven feet in height from wingtip to floor. Jinx's legs straddle its shoulders, idly kicking its chest with her arms crossed and resting on its head. She reminds me of a little kid being carted around on her daddy's shoulders at the zoo or something.

"If that statue starts walking around, I am _so_ out of here," I warn, mistrustfully eyeballing the angel's blank stare.

"Don't be silly. It's only a statue." She raps on its marble head; her fist makes no noise against the stone. "So? The castle showed you the way back, did it not?"

"Yes, the castle showed me the way back. And stop looking so smug about it," I grumble. Just as she'd explained, I thought of the chamber—my new bedroom, I suppose—and started walking in some random direction, ending up right in front of the room in a surprisingly short amount of time. Never mind that the direction I picked was the complete opposite of the one I'd taken before.

It's kind of an impressive trick, actually, but I'm not going to admit it. Instead, I ask, "Is there a bathtub somewhere in this place? I was promised a bath. And fresh clothes."

"It's over there." She waves an arm in a general direction, not even bothering to turn her head.

My eyebrows shoot up. "I'm bathing in the fireplace. Is he planning to boil me alive and eat me?"

"Don't be a ninny."

Someone had taken the trouble to light a large fire in the hearth, which has brought up the room temperature to a much more comfortable level. I sigh blissfully and hold out my hands, waggling my fingers over the flames as my feet warm nicely on the stone floor.

I finally notice the white, claw-footed porcelain tub only a foot away, filled with gently steaming water. A few pale flower petals drift on its surface, scenting the water sweetly. I pick one out and examine it. Its silvery-white color is familiar, as is the odd, ever-shifting scent.

"What's this flower called?" I ask. Jinx slides off the statue and floats to the hearth.

"Ah. Aurelia's Blossom. His Majesty's favorite."

It just figures that such a beautiful flower would have a beautiful name.

"I never would have taken _him_ for a flower lover." I drop the petal back into the tub. It floats gently down and lands without so much as a ripple.

"How could he not love them? He created them, after all. For _her_ , you know." Jinx trails a finger through the water and darned if she doesn't leave ripples behind.

How does she _do_ that, I wonder, touching physical matter or not as she pleases? I'm about to ask, but then her words catch up with me. "Wait. Her who?"

She heaves an exasperated sigh. "Have you _already_ forgotten what I told you?"

She's told me a lot of stuff. I take a moment to sort it out. "You mean that human he supposedly fell in love with?"

"Perhaps you're not as stupid as you look."

I glare at her. "You trying to earn yourself a punch in the nose?"

"You'd have to _touch_ me first, half-wit."

I bite back a growl, drop the blanket and start stripping off the nightgown before pausing to shoot her a pointed look. "Uh, do you mind?"

"Not at all." She waves a dismissive hand.

I sigh and continue undressing. Guess a little privacy is too much to hope for.

The water feels blissfully warm when I step into the tub and sink down to my chin. I relax and lean back against the porcelain, letting the heat soothe me. The heady scent of the flowers makes me drowsy, just as it did in the garden, and I force myself to sit up. The last thing I need is to fall asleep and drown. Jinx probably wouldn't take it upon herself to save me. I pick the petals out of the water one by one and fling them toward the fire, which proves to be a mistake. The scent grows even stronger as they smolder on the hearth, their edges blackening and curling.

I wash as quickly as possible with the sponge and crude bar of soap I find on a small table beside the tub, scrubbing off as much dirt as I can, then heave myself out of the tub and stand dripping all over the floor.

Someone has thoughtfully provided me with a large towel and, as promised, a change of clothes. I wipe myself dry and pick up the first article of clothing to shake it out. " _This_ is what he expects me to wear?" It looks like another nightgown, only this one is made of cotton.

"It's a _chemise_ ," Jinx informs me. "You don't wear it by itself."

I glance at the other half of the outfit; a sleeveless dress made of heavy green wool, with a split skirt and a corset-like bodice that laces up the front. There is also a pair of stockings and … are those _pantaloons_ folded neatly on top? I smack my forehead. "Is he kidding? What century does he think this _is_?"

"What has the century to do with anything?"

"Only that this sort of getup hasn't been worn in _several_ of them."

"And why should His Majesty care for silly things like mortal clothing?"

"He doesn't have to care, but I do! I said I wanted my _own_ clothes. From this century! Like a T-shirt and a pair of jeans." I grab a pair of thin leather slippers with no proper sole or inner cushioning to speak of and toss them aside in disgust. "And a pair of sneakers, for that matter."

I suppose I should be grateful my undergarments are still here, at least, since I'd been wearing them. Although they're in dire need of cleaning, too. Huffing, I snatch them up and dunk them in the tub to give them a thorough scrubbing. For lack of a better place, I hang them to dry on the statue. The angel looks a little silly with a pair of cotton panties and bra dangling from its outstretched hands, but so long as it doesn't take off running with them, I suppose it works well enough.

I next turn to the frustrating task of dressing myself in far too many layers, pulling on the stockings, the ridiculous bloomers and the chemise over that. I struggle into the overdress and have to keep adjusting the corseted bodice as I clumsily lace it up. The boning feels stiff and uncomfortable, pushing up what little cleavage I have and squashing down everything else. I can tell breathing properly will be a chore. So will walking, for that matter. Despite my height, the hems of both skirts trail on the floor, and I find myself kicking them aside as I move. Oh, yes, walking will be a literal trip in this getup.

Aside from the soap, the table also holds a silver comb and a small mirror that thankfully shows my usual, everyday reflection. I work to comb the tangles out of my damp hair, feeling decidedly grumpy over the entire ordeal. But as I run my hands over my head, I realize that the chunk of hair bitten off by the monster horse had somehow grown back. The Shadow King must have done it when he'd healed me, and I'm unexpectedly touched by the small kindness. I pull the entire mess into a long braid and knot the end, then shake my head at my reflection. "I feel like Cinderella."

"You certainly do look the part," Jinx agrees, floating down beside me. "A perfect role for a mortal girl, methinks."

I grimace. At least Cinderella had talking birds and mice to keep her company. I get stuck with a snarky, stuck-up ghost. Or _whatever_ she is.

I think I'd prefer the wicked stepmother.

* * *

I'm exhausted.

Well, that's putting it mildly, actually. I'm _beyond_ exhausted. I feel like I just finished running a three-day marathon. In six-inch stiletto heels. With fifteen-pound weights strapped to my arms and legs.

It's my own fault, really. I could have spent my day running around the castle and outer grounds, learning my way around the place. But the thought of leaving familiar territory—as strange as that territory might be—proved a far more daunting prospect than I was ready to take on at the moment. Still, mind-numbing boredom never did sit well with me and, given the extreme lack of anything more interesting to do, I finally fell back on the one thing I could always count on to pass time and keep me from thinking too hard.

I cleaned.

It isn't that I've never cleaned before. I'm always the one in charge of the housekeeping at home because Dad's too tired from working all day and Mickie tends to make more of a mess than she cleans up. Of course, she probably does that on purpose, considering how I always get frustrated to the point where I'll send her out of the room and do the work for her, the little darling.

No, the problem isn't cleaning, per se. The problem is cleaning without the aid of my trusty Dirt Devil, a can of dust spray and a Wet-Jet. After several hours of quality time with an ancient, crackling straw broom and a disintegrating feather duster—courtesy of Jinx, who'd unearthed them from … _somewhere_ or other—I'm silently bemoaning the loss of modern technology and wondering if I haven't bitten off more than I can chew.

My one saving grace, surprisingly enough, is Jinx herself. I'd expected her to vanish the moment the cleaning supplies made an appearance, but she actually stuck around. Even more, she's helping me sort through and organize the vast piles of junk in the abandoned room I'd chosen. One _without_ any giant, hairy spiders hiding amongst the mess (I hope). I know she's only helping because it amuses her to do so. In the next moment, she might decide she'll be just as amused to start knocking everything over again. But I also know better than to look a gift horse in the mouth.

She's especially helpful in getting the windows open. They're huge, those windows. Unlike my room, this one has an entire wall lined with them, stretching almost to the ceiling. Naturally, the latches holding them shut are way above my head, so Jinx floats up to undo the heavy fittings and I use my admittedly limited strength to use the brass poles attached to the frames to pull the thick glass panes in. Fresh air floods into the room, hopefully sucking out the worst of the huge dust storm our cleaning has stirred up. I've never sneezed so much in my life. Even Jinx is sneezing, although I suspect _she's_ just doing it for kicks.

It must be well into the afternoon by now, although the only way I have to tell is the shifting position of the sun. I've been working for hours, dusting, sweeping, wiping down, and sorting an amazing amount of _stuff_ into different sections. Dilapidated furniture gets shoved into one corner, countless knickknacks and breakables get shoved into the others. Anything too heavy to move is simply left where it stands so I can sweep the floor around everything still left in the way. Overall, the room still looks like a flea-market-gone-wild; at least now it looks like an _organized_ flea-market-gone-wild.

Heaving a drawn-out sigh, I plop my aching body onto a cushioned stool, shooting yet another cloud of dust into the atmosphere and straight up my nose. It seems like no matter how hard I beat it out of the upholstery, there's always more left behind. I'd swear it _breeds_. I sneeze explosively, nearly falling backward off the stool.

"Bless you!" Jinx calls as she balances precariously on the marble tip of a fairy's outstretched wing.

I grunt and wipe my nose with my sleeve. And there lies the other problem. The blasted statues. There are thirteen of the monsters in all, scattered throughout the chamber like a crazed landscaper's deranged fantasy. There's no way to move them out of the room on my own, which means I'd have to ask the Shadow King to get rid of them for me. The thought of asking _him_ for any favors makes me feel just slightly nauseous.

I'm not exactly looking forward to seeing him again after what happened. Luckily, he's made himself scarce and I haven't heard a peep out of him since breakfast. I'll be just as glad for him to stay away. Admittedly, my pride still stings from his brutally honest assessment of my life and I'm not sure it can survive another beating-down so soon after the first one. He's definitely not the type to pull his punches, no matter who he's aiming at.

Jinx suddenly pops up in front of me, startling me into almost falling off the stool again. "We're not finished cleaning," she scolds, planting fists on hips and tapping a foot impatiently in mid-air.

"Wanna bet?" I groan, rubbing the back of my neck to ease the kinks out of it. "Nobody said the entire room has to be cleaned _today_. I'm zonked. I hurt all over. I just want to crawl into bed for a month. Maybe a bath before. Or after. I don't care which."

Jinx tosses her hair. "Humans are so lazy."

"Humans have bodies that need food and sleep to keep functioning. Both of which this particular body is lacking at the moment." I heave myself to my feet and stagger out of the chamber, leaving the broom and duster behind. They'll still be there tomorrow. Or next month. Whenever I decide to resume my impromptu cleaning frenzy.

I limp down the hall to my own room and aim for the bed, shedding dirty clothes on the way until I'm down to the ridiculous bloomers. They're the cleanest part of the entire ensemble by this point. It's a relief to move and breathe so freely after being hampered by those long skirts and boned bodice. Next time I decide to do this, I'd be smarter to cut the skirts short and leave the corset behind.

I crawl into the bed and burrow under the covers, the sheets cool and soft against my skin. I think briefly of fetching my undergarments from the poor angel's arms since they've likely dried by now, but before I can gather the amount of willpower required to drag myself out of my cozy nest, I fall asleep.

* * *

I'm standing in the middle of a huge lawn. It looks like the sort of place that belongs on an English estate in a Jane Austen novel or something, with fountains and pools and box hedges, and bright green grass that's clipped to exactly the same length so it looks more like a plush carpet than a lawn.

A long stretch of a marble pool stands right in front of me. Glittery-scaled fish dart through clear water in flashes of brilliant color. Right behind me looms a ginormous castle. I'm pretty sure I've never seen it before, but it seems familiar somehow. I have the odd feeling it might be the Shadow King's castle. The even odder thing is I can't remember how I got outside of it.

It's rather spectacular as far as castles go. A lot less foreboding than I'd have expected, considering its owner. Rather than a gloomy, hulking, Gothic structure filled with leering gargoyles and dark gray stone, this castle is all light and air and grace. Its walls are constructed of sparkling white stone, like the wall in the forest garden. Its spires and turrets arch and soar with breathtaking grace, glittering like snow in sunlight. It's exactly the sort of fairytale castle I used to dream about, back before I knew better.

Everything is too bright, almost crystalline. The colors hurt my eyes and every time I turn my head, gossamer strands of light cut the air like spider's webbing. The entire world seems ethereal and insubstantial.

It only makes the black, hulking shadow crouched on the other side of the pool that much more noticeable.

We face each other across that narrow stretch of water, patiently, silently. I know the creature for what it is; the Soul Eater that almost caught my sister. I'm curious to know what the monster wants, that it dares the Shadow King's wrath by encroaching upon his property. But I'm not afraid because this is, after all, just a dream.

The Soul Eater draws itself up. It's as misty and insubstantial as I remember, but in this brilliant dream world it looks almost solid. I can feel its non-existent eyes on me and tense, prepared to run if I have to. It merely points one long, white, bony finger at me.

No, it's not pointing at _me_. It's pointing _behind_ me. At the castle. And it's speaking.

" _Innnn_ ," it moans and the dry rasp of its voice sounds like the rustle of dead leaves or corn husks skittering over the ground.

I blink in surprise; I didn't know it could actually _talk_. "E-excuse me?"

" _Let … meee … iiinnnn…_ "

Then it lunges at me, so quickly and suddenly that I have no time to dodge. It flows over the water and heads right for me and before I can get in one, good shriek, I abruptly find myself sitting bolt-upright in bed, the scream lodged in my throat, stuck behind the gasps of breath sawing in and out of my parted lips.

The black, hulking shadow still looms over me, even now that I'm awake. I blink at it for a moment, waiting for the vestiges of the disturbing dream to disappear.

When it doesn't go away, that's when I realize it's actually _there_.

 _Now_ that scream finally breaks loose. Convinced that I somehow managed to drag the Soul Eater through the dream with me, I make a mad scramble across the bed and straight off the other side, taking most of the blankets with me when I painfully hit the floor.

Somewhere in the room, Jinx starts howling with laughter. I peek, wide-eyed, over the edge of the bed, my nose pressed to the mattress.

The Shadow King stands there, an utterly bemused expression on his face. I can feel _my_ face flush with embarrassment as I hurriedly scramble to my feet, straighten my hair and try my hardest to look far more dignified than I'm feeling at the moment. "What?" I croak, my gaze landing on everything but him. The flush quickly spreads from my hot cheeks down the length of my neck. I'm too humiliated to be afraid, or even suspicious about why he's there.

The Shadow King, bless him, simply ignores all that. "I have come to request your presence for evening repast," he says calmly. I think I see his lips twitch. "Please join me in the ballroom in an hour."

"Oh," I squeak. "Uh. Okay. I'll do that." I'll do whatever he wants if he'll just _go away_ now.

He regards me for another moment, then turns and glides away, completely ignoring the fact that I've just made a complete ass out of myself. I can almost like him for that. Who knew he could be such a gentleman?

Then he turns and his silver gaze rakes over my body like burning coals as a positively lascivious smile touches his sensual mouth. "If you care to join me as you are, I certainly have no objection," he murmurs in a voice like rich, black velvet. "However, for your modesty's sake, I might suggest finding something more suitable in the wardrobe."

Blinking, I look down at myself. At the pantaloons adorning my lower body. And absolutely nothing else.

I release another high-pitched shriek and scramble madly for the blankets as, chuckling softly, the Shadow King exits the room.

" _Ass!_ " I scream after him as he vanishes down the hall.


	11. Ten

"I'm not going."

Jinx stops tittering long enough to shoot me a disapproving stare. "You must. His Majesty expects it. Besides, you already told him you would."

That was before he let me make a fool out of myself. Therefore, it doesn't count. " _I'm. Not._ _Going_ ," I enunciate slowly. Not after what just happened! There is not a snowflake's chance in hell that I'll be able to face him over a dinner table and not melt from sheer mortification.

Jinx purses her lips, clearly displeased with my stubbornness. Then she shrugs. "Oh, very well. At least I shall derive amusement from watching His Majesty bodily drag you there by your ankles. Or your hair," she chirps, as if thoroughly relishing the idea.

I flinch despite myself. "He wouldn't dare!"

Except … he probably would.

Huffing a sigh, I yank open the doors of the large wardrobe. The one that had been empty the last time I checked inside. Not anymore. When I open it, several long skirts and a feathered cape billow out to whap me softly in the face. They smell musty, like old costumes being pulled out after a long stint in a damp basement. I bat away layers of silk as Jinx vanishes into the depths and shortly reemerges with an armload of fabric, which she promptly dumps over my head. "Try this."

I balk. "Uh, exactly how many other girls have worn this stuff before me? And when's the last time any of it's been _cleaned_?"

"Just put it on!"

Grumbling to myself, I reluctantly slip into the gauzy chemise of raw white silk, its bodice and tight, pointed sleeves stiff with elaborate embroidery. The silk is so thin it's nearly transparent and the square-cut collar hangs rather a _bit_ lower than I'd ever consider wearing. I quirk an eyebrow at Jinx.

"It's His Majesty's favorite."

"Gee, can't imagine _why._ " I try unsuccessfully to tug it a little higher. "Don't you think he's seen _enough_ of me for one day?"

She just snorts and dumps another heavy gown into my arms, colored the rich, deep blue of sapphires. I heave my best put-upon sigh and struggle into it.

The overdress has long, split bell sleeves laced through from shoulder to elbow with silver ribbon. The skirt trails the floor in a short train and the bodice dips into a deep, wide V to show off the embroidery on the chemise. Best of all, no lace-up corset and no restrictive boning.

Jinx drops a pair of blue slippers on the floor by my feet and drapes a thin, silver girdle over my shoulder. A winking sapphire peeps out of a shoe; I note a pair of jeweled hair combs tucked inside. "Quite lovely," she approves, a rare compliment. "He shall certainly be pleased."

My mouth twists. The clothes are gorgeous and I admit there's a very small part of me—the little girl who used to love playing dress-up in her mother's prettiest clothes—that really likes the heavy drape of the fabric. If I was eight years old again I'd probably be squealing in delight and diving into the wardrobe to play. But I'm not eight anymore. And there's a reason why I never dress up. Wearing beautiful clothes only serves to highlight how beautiful I'm _not_. Too many years of torment have taught me to blend in, be invisible. Don't bring attention to myself under any circumstances.

Besides that, the very _last_ thing I want is for the Shadow King to think I'm dressing up especially for him. I don't want to give him any ideas and, wearing a dress like this, he'll definitely get _ideas_.

Sighing, I start digging through the wardrobe again. "I'll stick to something plain, thanks. Like what I wore today. That's more than good enough."

Jinx looks baffled. "You are such a _strange_ creature. Those other silly nits spent hours preparing to meet His Majesty when he demanded their presence, no matter the reason. Why do you not wish to look like a queen rather than a servant?"

I huff a short laugh and shake out a brown dress. "That's the entire point, isn't it? You can set a pebble into a golden ring and call it a diamond, but it's still just a pebble. I'm not those other girls and I'm not stupid enough to believe I'm capable of seducing a guy like him, even if I wanted to. Which I _don't_. I refuse to jump through hoops to entertain his whims."

Jinx only smirks at me, not fooled by my false bravado in the least. "Well, if for no other reason," she says coyly, "His Majesty has already seen you at your very worst. Do you not wish for him to at least see what you look like when properly clothed?"

She chortles as I turn red all the way to my toes.

* * *

I think of the ballroom and trudge toward my fate, trying not to look as nauseous as I feel. This must be similar to what condemned prisoners feel on their last walk to their execution. I'm probably late, too, thanks to Jinx. After wasting time arguing over the dresses, she'd finally solved it by snatching every choice I was considering and flying them way up above my reach, to the top of the bed canopy. Where she then proceeded to dump them across the tented silk and refused to give them back. I was forced to wear the blue gown, after all, and I left the room in a considerably worse mood than I'd started with.

I turn a corner and nearly jump out of my skin when I'm met with the sight of two people further down the hall. It's a tall, beautiful couple, a man and woman dressed in glittering clothes with jewels in their long, pale hair. There's something otherworldly about the way they move, strolling along with such grace that they seem to float. They shine like stars in the dim hallway. I stare in astonishment. More faerie? Again? Where did they come from? Didn't Jinx say nobody else lived in the castle?

"Excuse me!" I call after them and quicken my pace. I feel about as graceful as a three-legged cow next to their flowing movements, tripping all over my skirt as I hurry to catch up. Maybe they'll help me find a way to get home? True, the stories say it's always risky to ask the faerie for any favors, because who knows _what_ they'll demand in payment. But at this point, I've hardly got anything else to lose.

The couple ignores me, just like the first lady had. I call again just as they turn another corner and disappear from view. Scowling, I break into a full-out sprint and reach them a few moments later, out of breath. Who knew running in a fancy dress could be so tiring? "Excuse me," I gasp for the third time, only to stop dead in my tracks.

There is no corner. The hall stretches straight ahead and there's nothing but wall where the couple had turned. Not even a door. My jaw drops in astonishment and I press my palms to the stone. It feels solid and cold. When I push, I only succeed in rocking myself back on my heels. I groan and bury my face in my hands. Oh, fantastic. More hallucinations? Maybe Jinx was right. She said mortals don't fare well under enchantment and I've been doused with enough magic to last me several lifetimes. I wonder how long it will take before I turn into a drooling, catatonic vegetable from magical overdose.

I let myself wallow in self-pity for a few more minutes before I straighten, gather my dust-coated skirt and trudge on. I'm probably really late right now and the Shadow King will be less than pleased, but I can't bring myself to care. My distraction doesn't help me, either. I can't focus well enough to give the castle a clear destination, so it's quite a while longer before the ballroom doors finally appear.

I'm not sure what to expect when I enter the room. Perhaps some huge, elaborate banquet table spread with gleaming platters of turkey legs and whole suckling pigs and roasted peacocks still wearing their tail feathers. The kind of feast they always show in movies. Instead, I find the same small table sitting under the flower canopy with its two chairs, tableware, and a few plates of food.

The Shadow King lounges in one of the chairs, his back to me. His hair has been bound with silver rings into a long, glossy tail that hangs down his back and pools on the floor. He's dressed entirely in shades of gray that blend with his skin and make his inky hair even darker in contrast. He reminds me of a storm cloud. His silk-clad back and shoulders look broad and strong and very solid. _Almost human,_ I think with a startled sort of frown. Like before, his presence feels … diminished, somehow. He doesn't _feel_ like a wild faerie king who radiates power and menace. If not for the pointed ears and the odd shade of his skin, one might easily mistake him for a normal man sitting in a restaurant. Waiting for a date.

Is he deliberately diminishing himself so he won't frighten me? Can he do that? And why would he even bother? It makes more sense to keep me scared, doesn't it? Most kidnappers try to keep their victims intimidated; they're easier to control that way. Even the victim knows _that_.

"Do you wish to join me, or do you simply plan to admire my back for the rest of the evening?"

The Shadow King's deep voice makes me jump and my heart takes a startled leap into my throat. Okay, so even with his presence diminished he _still_ scares me. I swallow with some difficulty and make my way slowly to the other side of the table, chin held high. It takes every bit of effort to appear calm. Somehow, I don't think I'm fooling him very well. I glance at him from the corner of my eye as I pass. Despite his carefully composed expression, I detect a flicker of appreciation in his gaze as it slides over me. He frowns slightly when he notices the state of my dress, though.

"The hallways need to be cleaned. Don't suppose you've got a Hoover hidden away in any of those rooms," I say snidely in a halfhearted attempt to hide my sudden embarrassment. Maybe I should have listened to Jinx and tried a little harder to look nicer. At the very least I should have combed my hair again. It's still a bit tangled from my nap.

"It seems your attire has taken care of much of that problem already."

He sounds amused, which I suppose is better than angry. But it still pisses me off that he's laughing at my expense. Again.

He sighs and steeples his fingers together, regards me with an infuriatingly calm expression as his mouth presses into a thin smile. He eyes my messy hair. "I see you've taken extra care with your appearance this evening. Perhaps that is why you are late."

"No, there were these people in the hall and I was … trying to…" My voice trails off when he fixes me with a Look, as though I'd just started babbling in a different language. "Um, are there others here?" I ask timidly. "Other faerie, I mean."

He tilts his head slightly. "We are the only ones present at this time."

And Jinx, I'm about to add, before remembering that he supposedly can't see her, anyway. His words do nothing to reassure me, though. I guess I really was hallucinating, after all. Well, I try to reassure myself, at least I've started dreaming up beautiful people rather than my normal spooks and goblins. _They_ haven't made an appearance since I've been here.

The Shadow King still stares at my messy hair, which makes me both uncomfortable and more than a little annoyed. As if _he_ has any call to judge my appearance. Then he makes a sudden, small gesture and I nearly fall off the chair in surprise when an odd weight abruptly settles on my head. My hands fly up to touch cool metal and a few shining curls snake over my shoulders, glittering strands of sapphires woven through the locks. "Wh-what did you do?" A glance at my dress shows that it's now clean and dust-free, just as I suspected it would be.

"I merely gave the crown jewel a bit of polishing. It does not take much to make her glow. With a bit of care, her radiance will truly become a sight to behold." He raises his cup in a parody of a toast and his smile turns slightly challenging, as if he's just thrown down a verbal gauntlet of some sort.

My heart skips as his words slowly sink in. Did he really just call me _radiant_? He's got to be teasing again. If he's talking about glowing radiance, it's only in reference to the hot blush I can feel crawling over my face. Again. Unable to hold his gaze, I grab a spoon and start heaping whipped potatoes onto my plate.

"Perhaps I should have requested your presence earlier. I didn't realize you were so famished."

I blink at him, confused by his comment, then glance back at the plate in front of me. My cheeks flame even hotter; the mountain of potatoes is easily large enough to sculpt Elvis's bust if I had the inclination. I drop the spoon back into the nearly-empty bowl. "I … I like potatoes."

"So it would seem." Without another word, he begins to eat.

I take a bite of food … and nearly choke on it when Jinx pops up out of nowhere, her head suddenly appearing in the middle of my plate. Coughing, I take a quick swallow of my drink and try to ignore the odd look the Shadow King levels at me. He doesn't seem to notice Jinx's presence. So she wasn't lying about that. He really can't see her.

"What are you eating?" Jinx eyes my plate distastefully. "Really, making such a pig out of yourself in front of His Majesty. How shameful." She disentangles herself from my food and mimes brushing her clothes off.

I cut off a nasty retort by shoving in another spoonful of potatoes; His Majesty probably wouldn't take kindly to me suddenly babbling at the air like a lunatic. But when Jinx reaches out to poke at the sliced roast on the platter in front of me, I violently stab a fork right into her hand. It doesn't touch her, of course, but she squeaks in outrage and jerks away just the same, glaring as I calmly add the meat to my plate.

"Vicious shrew," she hisses as she drifts to the safer end of the table.

Where she then proceeds to drape her thin arms around the Shadow King's neck from behind, nuzzling her chin against his shoulder. "Is he not beautiful?" she coos as she trails her hands over his chest. She kisses his neck and I nearly choke on my food, gaping at the blatant and completely unexpected display.

Jinx, naturally, pounces on my obvious discomfort, her lips twisted into an evil smile as she gazes pointedly at me. "Such perfection," she purrs, hands slipping under the unlaced neckline of his shirt. I can see the fabric shift as she strokes his bare skin and my blush burns even hotter. How does he not _feel_ that?

"Are you alright? You look a bit flushed. Do you feel ill?"

" _Huh?_ " My eyes jerk to his face; he stares back with furrowed brow, clearly concerned.

"F-fine! I feel fine. Everything's fine!" I stutter and toss back a large swallow of juice. My palms sweat. So does my forehead. My entire face feels like I just plunged it into a pot of boiling water, in fact. Is it possible to actually _die_ from embarrassment? My gaze darts around the room, to the floor, the ceiling … _anywhere_ but the Shadow King and the increasingly R-rated display being played upon his person.

He studies me quietly, unaware that Jinx has started to delicately lick at his ear and jawline. Her eyes remain fixed on me, positively gleaming with mischief. She knows exactly what she's doing and I swear I'm going to kill her even deader after this! There has to be _some_ way to properly exorcise a … a … _whatever_ she is.

"May I … um … may I please be excused now? I'm full."

He tilts his head to one side and regards my nearly-full plate. He doesn't seem inclined to believe my excuse. "Are you frightened of me, Gabriella?"

I blink, caught by surprise. Yes. No! Excruciatingly _mortified_ , maybe, but Jinx has effectively knocked any fear clean out of me. The little heathen.

I chance a quick glance at him, note that his shirt has become skewed, the laces pulled further apart to reveal most of his abdomen. Smooth, dusky skin stretches taut over lean muscle, rising and falling softly as he breathes…

I gulp and look away. He still hasn't seemed to realize that anything's amiss, even though Jinx has draped herself over his lap and now trails parted lips over his bared chest. I hastily shovel more food into my mouth, completely contradicting my claim of being full. My entire body feels flushed and chilled at the same time and _how can he not notice_?

"Are you certain you are not ill? You look feverish." His concern grows more pronounced at my continuing behavior. I'll take time to be confused over that later. At the moment I'm trying _very_ hard not to follow the path of Jinx's hand as it slides sensually down the Shadow King's chest and stomach … and then further still. She leans in and presses her mouth to his.

I'm on my feet before I even think of moving, my chair cracking against the floor behind me. "I'm _fine_! Just tired. Nothing a nap won't cure!" I bow hastily and practically bolt from the room.

"Gabriella."

He doesn't shout, but his commanding tone nevertheless stops me dead in my tracks. I very reluctantly turn to look at him, dreading what I'll see. I'm unprepared to find him facing me with all of his clothes in perfect order as if he _wasn't_ just being mauled by a horny ghost. Jinx flashes her most evil grin at me and vanishes.

"In future, I request your presence for both morning and evening meals. They shall be taken here."

I nod silently as he regards me. "Gabriella," he intones softly, "you have no cause to fear me. I told you that I shall not harm you while you are in this castle. Do you not believe me?"

"I believe you," I croak (even though I don't). "I just really have to go now." Before he can object, I race out of the ballroom and don't stop until I reach my chamber and throw open the door. I feel vaguely sick and cover my mouth with a shaking hand, braced against the doorframe for support. Running full-speed right after consuming an unhealthy amount of potatoes is probably not the most intelligent decision I've ever made.

"Goodness, you look quite green. Not a very flattering color on you, I'm afraid."

"You!" I whip around to fix Jinx with my fiercest glare. "Exactly what the _hell_ were you trying to pull back there? _Are you out of your mind_?"

She smirks and seats herself on the windowsill across the hall. "Why? He cannot feel me." She sighs longingly. "But I can feel _him_. He has _such_ soft skin. It feels like warm silk."

Funny, in the very few times I've been forced to touch him, he always reminded me more of stone than silk, cool and hard. But maybe to someone like Jinx, even the Shadow King's coldness feels like warmth.

Of course, there _was_ the incident in the garden. When he kissed me. When he bound me. He hadn't felt cold and hard then. He felt soft and, if he was cold at first, by the time it was over he'd been very, very warm. I shiver at the memory and hastily push it away. My first kiss. I don't _want_ to recall how wonderfully gentle his lips had felt, the healing comfort and warmth that had flowed from his mouth to mine.

Jinx gazes at her hands, fingers flexing as if remembering. "Ah, how I wish for him to touch me as I touch him," she laments. "Think of it! So much strength and power. Would he not make the most amazing lover? Do you not want to experience him in such a way?"

I clench my hands into fists because I know she's just baiting me, but her words still spark something deep inside a strange, unfamiliar part of my mind. For one wild, leaping moment I _do_ want it. I want to feel such a sensual creature embrace me, kiss me, make me feel beautiful and loved. But it's a crazy, _stupid_ idea and it will never happen and _I'm_ the monster for even thinking of holding my mother's murderer in such a way.

My breath sounds harsh in my ears as I turn my fiercest glare to Jinx, try to ignore the fine tremors that seem to have overtaken my body. " _You_ are a freaking _pervert,_ " I hiss and slam the door in her face so hard that it shakes. I hear her laughter through the wall and stomp across the chamber, yanking out hair combs and strands of jewels as I go. I'm not sure who I'm more furious with; myself for having such horrible _thoughts_ , or Jinx for putting them into my head in the first place.

I pull the comb brutally through my hair, not caring if I rip it out of my head. The pain helps ground me and when I'm sufficiently calm, I take a look around the room, notice for the first time that something looks different. I'd left the place in complete disarray with scattered blankets and bathwater on the floor and clothes tossed all over the place. But all of that's gone. The floor's been dried and the tub drained of water. The bed neatly made and all of the clothes put away.

Who cleaned up? I highly doubt Jinx would have taken it upon herself to do something so useful. Besides, she was probably too busy tormenting me to bother. Was it the Shadow King? But that hardly seems realistic, either. I ponder the mystery as I strip from my clothes and crawl into bed, completely done with the whole cursed day.

* * *

Hands softly caress my body.

An arm slips around my waist to pull me back against a tall, solid form. The slow, steady rise and fall of his chest against my back is a comforting heat. Hot breath ghosts my neck. My eyes flutter as I shiver and a hand smooths over my shoulder, down my arm, traces a ticklish path in my palm. I try to close my fist but long fingers entwine with mine, draw my arm up and back until I touch a wealth of cool silk and the strong column of his neck. I bury my fingers into his hair as fingertips trail down my arm, tickle a slow path across my collarbone. My heart quickens as he reaches my breast, pauses to caress softly, and it's as much of a shock as it is a thrill to be touched in such a way. He strokes my stomach and waist and hip. His lips trace my throat and jaw and his voice slithers sensually into my ear as he whispers, "Open your eyes."

I force them open and find myself staring at my own reflection in the ballroom mirror. Not my alter-reflection but my true, pale-haired self. Eyes lidded, lips parted on deep, unsteady breaths. A strange sort of heat I've never felt before slowly kindles just under my skin. Glossy black hair ripples over my shoulders, tangles with my own in startling contrast. His arms tighten as the one who holds me buries his face against my neck to ply it with kisses, stoking the flames that lick beneath my skin until I find myself trembling in his grasp.

I fear him. I want him. And then he raises his head and a molten, silver gaze locks with mine. The Shadow King's smile hints at dark promise and hidden desire as he whispers against my neck, "Do you wish for this, my heart? Do you yearn for this pleasure?"

And the only thing I can do is gasp a single, burning word into the stillness around us.

" _Yes._ "

I wake up.

* * *

I storm around the bedchamber, too keyed up to even consider going back to sleep. _Ever._ That I'm thoroughly freaked out is an understatement. What a shock, to suddenly find myself back in bed, completely alone and shaking like a weed in a hurricane, despite the fact I'm not the least bit cold. In fact, I'm the complete opposite. Who knew I even had the imagination to dream up something like that? It's not like I have actual _experience_ or anything. Guys aren't exactly lined up trying to gain my attention unless it's to hurl insults, snowballs and the occasional rock. The way I have it figured, there's no point in showing interest in something that will never happen to me. I'd just be begging for a whole boatload of brand new issues and I already have more than enough of _those_ to contend with.

It's all Jinx's fault, of course. She's the one who'd put those … those _images_ into my brain with that disgusting display at dinner so she's entirely to blame. The whole idea of it is laughable! The only feelings I hold for the Shadow King are terror and contempt and seeing him all wrapped around me like some kind of a lover is _revolting._

At least it should definitely feel that way, so why do I still shiver with the remembered pleasure of soft lips and warm hands and silken hair slithering over my body? Why do I wish I was still _dreaming_?

Fresh air will help, I decide, and pull on a quilted robe I dig out of the wardrobe (which thankfully remains stuffed with clothes, although _still_ not my own). I shove my cold feet into a pair of fur slippers and head for the exit … and am immediately brought up short as my jaw drops in surprise.

The door is _gone_.

I rush to the wall, touch it to make absolutely sure. No frame, no door… Nothing but cold stone against my fingers.

Then I remember what the Shadow King had told me about not leaving my room at night. Apparently, he intends to make sure I listen by simply removing the door. "Ya know, you could just _lock_ it like a normal person!" I yell at the air, pissed off and frustrated.

I hate not having a clock in this place. It's impossible to tell time here, assuming time is even a thing that exists anymore. I glance at the window. Bright moonlight streams through the stained glass, casting the light-river across the floor. The ceiling glow-ball has dimmed so the scene looks extra bright. It makes me wonder if my foot might actually get wet this time should I touch it.

I stomp to the river and jump right into the center of it, half-expecting to feel cold water splash up my legs. It doesn't, but I immediately feel the rush of it over my feet and ankles, icy and refreshing. The little pebbles press into the soles of my feet despite the thick slippers I'm still wearing. I spread out my arms, close my eyes, and let myself collapse to the floor, spread-eagle in the middle of the stream.

Water rises around me, flows into my ears, soaks my hair and clothes. Closes over my body up to my chin. Thank goodness it's a shallow stream or maybe I would actually drown in it. The chill makes me gasp as it chases the lingering heat from my body. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, relishing the icy cold; it _feels_ like I'm underwater, the rush of the stream muffled in my ears. Feathery plant fronds brush my hands and minnows tap curiously at my fingertips as a smile twitches my lips. I'm just begging for trouble, doing this. All that worry about going crazy with too much magic exposure and here I am literally _bathing_ in it.

But the illusion feels so _real_ that I can almost believe I'm back home, soaking in one of the many streams that run through the pine forest behind my house. Despite the coldness, I can feel myself slowly relaxing, my built-up tension flowing away.

When I slowly open my eyes, it's to find Jinx's nose only centimeters from mine.

I yelp in shock and sit bolt-upright, the illusion shattered. Had she been solid our heads definitely would have collided. As it is, I merely pass right through her and sit for a moment to utter a series of curses, turn to glare up at the spirit for disrupting my dream. She simply regards me with a puzzled frown. "Whatever _are_ you doing in the middle of the night, strange creature?"

"Oh, _I'm_ the strange one?" I snipe, climbing to my feet. I'm startled to realize that my clothes feel damp in places. Like I'd pulled them off a clothesline too soon and put them on before they'd fully dried. Weird.

"What were you doing?" Jinx presses as she lands in the stream and starts skipping about, kicking invisible water at me.

"Distracting myself," I mutter, shrugging out of the robe. I glare at the traitorous wall. "Since _somebody_ decided to trap me inside my own room. _As if I was ten years old!_ " I yell the last part on the off chance that somebody might be listening.

"It's for your own good," Jinx says pertly.

"I think _I_ get to decide what's for my own good, thanks."

She rolls her glassy eyes. "Throwing a tantrum will not make the door appear."

I huff. "No, but it makes me feel better," I grumble and toss the robe over her head. It hangs off her for a moment before plopping to the ground. How does she _do_ that?

Jinx shakes her head in clear disapproval. "The door does not vanish to keep you _in_ ," she scolds. "It vanishes to keep others _out_. The castle protects you, you know."

I narrow my eyes. "What others? We're the only ones here, remember? And if it keeps others out, how are _you_ in here?"

She snickers. "Because I am special. I can go where I please." At my disbelieving snort, she rolls her eyes again. "If you truly wish to act the fool, there is nothing to stop you from leaving," she sniffs.

"And how am I supposed to do that, walk through walls?"

"Oh, honestly, have you already forgotten what I told you about the castle? You're certainly stubborn enough, so figure it out!" She hops from the stream and shakes off her feet. "You're no fun when you're in a snit. I'm leaving!"

"As always, it's been a real pleasure talking to you," I deadpan.

She sticks out her tongue and disappears.


	12. Eleven

So, it turns out Jinx is a liar.

Should've seen it coming, really, but I suppose my desperation to get out of my room supersedes common sense.

I mean, her words had _sounded_ logical enough at the time. The castle is the key. It's what hides the door and it can take me to where I want to go if I think about it hard enough. Which suggests some sort of sentience and/or the ability to transport me from one place to another. It seems simple enough.

And yet, no matter how hard I try, I can't get the castle to take me _anywhere_. I first concentrate on the ballroom, as that's the most familiar room in the place thus far. Nothing. I next try for the room I'd been cleaning down the hall, with equally bad luck. Finally, I think about the hallway just outside, a mere hundred feet and one stone wall away, but when I open my eyes I'm still inside my own chambers, and by now I've got nothing to show for my efforts but a splitting headache.

Maybe I'm just too tense. Could be I'm thinking about it too hard or something. So, with no better ideas in mind, I crawl into bed and get comfortable. Close my eyes and force deep and steady breaths, _will_ myself to relax and my mind to settle down.

The next thing I know, a hard finger is stabbing me right in the eye in a vain attempt to pry it open.

I screech in pain and bolt upright, my right eye throbbing and watering from being poked so hard. I blink away tears and note that the light's grown considerably brighter, suggesting the night has passed.

The fact that the damned door has reappeared in the wall proves it.

Clearly, I'd made myself relax _so_ well that I actually fell asleep.

I switch my glare to the culprit of my rude awakening. Jinx sits cross-legged atop the blankets, right on my lap, and stares me down like a cat waiting for her breakfast, not at all concerned over the fact that she'd nearly just blinded me. "I take this to mean you didn't escape last night." She _tsks_ and shakes her head in disappointment. "And here I was certain you are not nearly as stupid as you look."

I calmly reach back to grab a pillow and hurl it at her face.

* * *

"How long are you going to stay angry?" Jinx follows me persistently around the room as I attempt to wash and dress myself. I do my best to pretend she doesn't exist, which would be a lot easier if she'd stop popping up right in my face so that I'm forced to walk straight through her. _She_ doesn't seem to mind, but it makes my skin crawl every time it happens. Plus, I'm pretty sure I've actually _inhaled_ her a few times. It makes me wonder how often I'd have to do that before she runs out of … herself.

On the other hand, it'd be nice to get some peace and quiet around here…

"Do you want to see something wonderful?" she coaxes, undeterred by my continuing silent treatment. "A secret room! Nobody else but His Majesty has ever seen it, but I'll take you there!"

A secret room? Now that sounds … intriguing. I actually consider for a moment before common sense thankfully kicks in. "Secret suggests that he doesn't want anyone to _find_ it. Which suggests he'll be exceedingly cross with me if he catches me snooping. No thanks. I'd like to keep all my body parts attached," I grumble, mostly to myself.

She pouts. "Big ninny."

"I prefer to think of it as possessing a healthy dose of self-preservation," I snark back, before remembering that I'm not supposed to be talking to her. I slip on a pair of shoes and leave the room, offering a pouty glare at the door when it swings silently open at my merest touch.

* * *

I'm coming to realize that the Shadow King isn't a … _chatty_ sort of fellow. Upon entering the ballroom, I find him at the usual table waiting for me, but he offers little more than a quiet "good morning" and immediately tucks into his food as if I'm not even there.

Really, it's kind of insulting. This whole taking-meals-together thing was _his_ idea, after all. What, like I'm not worthy enough to even attempt a little small talk?

Not that I should _complain_ or anything, because after the events of yesterday (not to mention that _dream_ ) I can't even _look_ at the guy much less attempt to hold intelligent conversation with him. At least Jinx isn't issuing an encore of her little performance from dinner. If she tries to pull _that_ shit again I swear I'll beg the Shadow King for a battery-powered vacuum cleaner and Hoover the little beast out of existence!

After a supremely awkward breakfast that can't end soon enough, I manage to make my excuses to leave and start to rise from my seat.

"I ask that you walk with me this morning. Some fresh air will invigorate us both."

I freeze, half-standing, then hastily straighten as he also rises to his feet. I mentally scramble for an excuse— _any_ excuse—to deny his request (which sounds way more like a command, if you ask me), but my mind comes up blank. After all, it isn't like I've actually got anything more interesting to do around here…

Besides, I have been wanting to explore outside and this seems like a relatively safe way to do it without risk of getting myself hopelessly lost. If I can withstand his company long enough to get a proper look, anyway...

He extends his arm in a gentlemanly manner and I reluctantly slip my hand around his elbow, let him lead me to the wall of glass doors and out onto the terrace. He's right about one thing; it _is_ a beautiful morning and the air is so fragrant with blooming flowers that I can't help inhaling deeply. I hadn't even realized how stagnant the castle's air is by comparison, despite the openness of the halls. Maybe all that dust just chokes the freshness right out of it.

He leads me down the wide marble steps to a lower courtyard, turns a bit to take a cobbled path along the side of the building which eventually meanders out into the vast, wide-open lawn. It sprawls before us and I can't help thinking the landscape looks kind of familiar. This marble pool we're passing, for example… I _know_ I've seen it before. I just can't remem—Ah. No, I've definitely seen it. In my _dream_. Not _that_ one, the first dream I'd had. The one with the Soul Wraith. Funny, I had forgotten all about it until now.

This pool looks worse for wear, though. It's mostly empty of water and cracked around the edges and down the sides. The remaining dredges in the bottom look murky and stagnant, choked with half-dead plant life. More like the forest pond I'd crawled out of than something that belongs in a castle landscape.

The yard is also in a pitifully unmanicured state; not like a plush green carpet with all the grass clipped to exactly the same length, more like a wild prairie with bright bursts of color from all the blooming wildflowers that cover the entire spread. It's actually kind of beautiful in its own wild, untamed way. And it explains why the air is so fragrant. I suppose I should be grateful I'm not allergic. Poor Mickie. If _she'd_ been the one stuck here, she would be absolutely _miserable_. Mom's allergy to flowers is probably the one thing my sister had inherited from her.

The thought triggers a sudden memory, something I'd shoved down and hadn't thought of in _years_.

We always kept flowers in the house. Vases and jugs overflowing with brilliantly-colored blooms. But they were all fake, those fabric and plastic kinds sold in crafting stores, because Mom loved flowers, even if she couldn't tolerate the pollen from real ones.

The multicolored tiger lilies were her favorites and Wally's craft section always had some in stock, so she would always buy one whenever she had to go into the store. And they were always in the most unnatural colors, too, because she loved color as much as she did flowers.

It was borderline ridiculous, thinking back on it, but at the time I'd loved going into the store with her to help her choose the gaudiest flowers we could find. Dad would always complain as we'd then add a bright purple or blue lily into one of the overflowing vases, but it was always more of a good-natured banter, even when he threatened to ban us from the Dime-a-Dozen for _life_ (he never did).

For a while after the funeral, Dad had given out all of those flowers to any neighbor who wanted one, as sort of a remembrance of my mother. And a lot of neighbors wanted one because _everyone_ loved Mom. She was beautiful and funny and quirky and charmingly old-fashioned. She got along with those "newfangled electronics" about as well as _I_ do. I smile at the thought. That ancient microwave is about the only thing in the house that didn't give her any grief, either.

"What is it you're dreaming of to bring such an expression to your face?"

I nearly leap out of my skin, so lost in memories that I'd practically forgotten the Shadow King's silent presence at my side. "I, uh, j-just wondering what kind of flowers they all are," I mumble. The _last_ thing I'm gonna share with this guy is memories of my mother. He might've stolen _her_ from me but my memories are _mine_.

He pauses to gaze around, as if noticing the colorful blooms for the first time. "A variety of species that have grown wild over the long years," he murmurs, stooping to run his fingers over a half-opened stem of blossoms that looks like foxglove, only made out of frosted glass. At his touch, the pale purple blossoms slowly unfurl into full bloom, revealing translucent black centers. They tinkle softly as they brush each other, like tiny crystal bells. Clearly not a species from _my_ world.

The human part of it, anyway…

He does the same trick as we walk further along and come upon another wide, cracked pool with a fountain in its center that's empty of water and overrun with wilting rose bushes. Another soft touch is all it takes to send shoots of fresh green through the browning vines and leaves, color blooming over dead buds, withered petals dropping off to allow new ones to sprout in their place.

In mere moments, the fountain comes to life with deep red roses contrasting against dark green foliage. I raise an eyebrow and glance up at the Shadow King, who looks far too smug. "Show off," I mutter and an actual _smile_ crosses his face. And I realize that showing off is _exactly_ what he's doing.

The idea is just too bizarre to contemplate so I turn away and keep walking, hoping he'll get the idea that I'm not impressed (even if I sort-of-slightly-just-a-little-bit _am._ Maybe).

We walk a few more minutes in relative silence, both apparently lost in our own thoughts, before he breaks it again with his sudden inquiry, "And how do you find the castle, Gabriella? Are your quarters comfortable?"

I blink in surprise, then huff in annoyance. "You are _seriously_ asking me that?" When he merely looks at me, a slender brow quirked, I respond with a one-shouldered shrug. "I dunno. It's nice enough as far as prisons go, I guess. Bit of a mess, though. You might've cleaned the place up a bit if you were expecting company." I press my lips together at his darkening expression and scowl at the overgrown grass. " _You_ asked," I mutter.

After a moment he offers a quiet chuckle. "I must admit, your straightforward candor continues to surprise me."

My mouth tightens. More like it annoys him. He's not fooling me. But if he expects me to simper and flatter and bat my eyes like those other girls probably did, he's in for a world of disappointment. I'm not about to let him forget that I'm his _prisoner_ , not his guest. "I've been putting up with bullies for over half my life. What's one more?" I mutter to myself.

As if he isn't _the_ ultimate bully I'd been terrified of meeting again for just as long.

"Is that what I am?" He sounds like he's on the verge of laughter.

My fists clench. "You forced me to come to your castle completely against my will. What would _you_ call that?"

"I never forced," he instantly denies. "Merely … persuaded."

My glare snaps to his face. "You _tricked_ and _coerced_. And you used a little kid—my baby sister—to do it! I'd call _that_ bullying."

He regards me for a long, serious moment, then sighs. "What's done is done. We are here at this moment now and I've no desire to argue. Please, can we not speak with civility and peace?" He reaches out to pluck a deep red rose from the bush and offers it to me. As he holds it, it … _changes_. The velvety petals, leaves, and stem seem to stiffen and take on a soft sheen, colors paling slightly as if they'd just been dipped in glass.

I reach unthinkingly to take it and as it rests, nearly weightless, in my hand, deep red seems to morph into shining white as another half-forgotten memory hits me out of nowhere.


	13. Twelve - The Fairy Flower

"Do I spy with my little eye a little bugaboo creeping in my bed?"

At the sound of Mama's voice, I guiltily jerked my hand back and scrambled to sit at the foot of her bed, like I _wasn't_ trying to reach for the shiny wooden box I could just see over the edge of the tall dresser at the bedside. I was still too short at six years old (almost seven) to reach the dresser top from the floor, but the bed was very tall, so from her pillow I could easily reach the box. Except I wasn't really supposed to touch it. Or rather, what was _inside_ of it.

Mama came into the bedroom with a basket full of laundry that still smelled warm and sunny, gave me a knowing glance like she knew what I'd been up to. So I gave her my best smile, the one that always got me out of trouble. It worked this time, too. She huffed and dumped the basket over my head and I giggled when soft sheets tumbled around me.

"I wasn't touching your treasure, Mama, honest!" And that was the truth, 'cause she'd caught me out before I could even get close to the box.

"Mmm-hmm," was the answer she always gave when she knew she'd caught me snooping but decided to pretend she hadn't. "Since you're in here, help me fold the bedding."

I thought about it, then glanced up at the box again. "Can I look at the Fairy Flower first?" I bargained.

She chuckled. "How about after we're done," she countered.

Good enough. I eagerly clawed my way out from the sheet pile and my long dark hair stood on end, full of static like I'd just rubbed a balloon over my head.

Mama sighed and smoothed it down for me. "Where on earth did you lose your hair tie this time?" she scolded. "Your braid is a mess!"

I tried to remember. Was it in the living room where I'd been watching TV, or maybe somewhere along the stream when I'd been playing there with Staci earlier?

"Oh, I know! Staci lost her tie so I let her have mine," I recalled.

"That's generous but you keep losing your ties, too, so you'll soon run out." She ruffled my hair with a smile. "I think between your hair ties and my flowers, we keep Wally in business all by ourselves."

I bounced on the bed, impatient. "Can you show me the Fairy Flower now?"

She laughed. "Fold first." She held one end of a sheet and I grabbed the other and we matched in the middle. Folding sheets by yourself is hard, but with both of us together we got them done in no time. Then I crawled onto the bed and made myself comfortable while Mama got the box off the dresser and sat beside me with it resting on her lap. She opened it just a crack and tilted it forward. "There, you see? Okay, time to put it away now," she teased.

"Mama, nooooo!" I protested and wrapped both of my arms around hers, just to make sure she couldn't leave.

"Oh, all right." She laughed and settled back to open the wooden box fully. I leaned forward, eager to glimpse the treasure inside, resting on its nest of black silk.

The white lily gleamed as brightly as it always did and I sighed with admiration. Late afternoon sunlight glinted off dark green leaves and through the delicate petals, paper-thin with glowing silvery veins and dots of soft red and gold in the center. It looked so _real_ and fragile enough to break with the slightest breath, which was why Mama took such care with it and never let anyone touch it.

"Is it alive?" I asked. "How come it doesn't die without any water?"

"It's an enchanted flower," Mama replied. "It will live forever if I'm very careful."

"Did a faerie _really_ give it to you?"

"Yes. A long time ago when I was a little girl."

I squirmed closer, eager to hear more. "I'll bet she was really beautiful, huh?" Because all of the picture books Mama read to me showed beautiful people with wings and long hair and pointed ears and lovely gowns.

Mama's lips twitched, like she was trying not to smile. "The prettiest faerie I've ever seen."

"Do you think _I'll_ get to meet her someday, too?"

She hummed. "Maybe. But faeries are tricky creatures. They do as they please. If you ever meet one, you should be cautious. It might not have your best interests at heart."

"So how come the faerie gave you a magic flower?"

"It was like … a promise."

"What kind of promise?"

She nudged me playfully. "That's between me and the faerie."

I pouted for a moment. Mama never talked much about her faerie no matter how many times I asked. "Can I hold the flower?" I asked instead and, just like always, she replied, "Maybe someday, when you're older."

"How come I can't hold it now? I'd be very careful with it."

She thought for a moment. "Do you remember what happened the other week when Rum Tum Tugger chased a moth into your room?"

I frowned at the fresh reminder. "Yes. He knocked Bernadette off her shelf and broke her!"

"And that made you very upset, didn't it?"

Yes, because Bernadette was my favorite doll. She had a porcelain head and arms and legs, pretty green glass eyes and long, blonde hair. She also had sparkly fabric wings and a pretty green and pink dress. When Tugger knocked her off the high shelf, her leg broke off and her head cracked into five different pieces. I cried all day when it happened, even though Daddy had fixed her again.

"If my favorite flower broke," Mama said, "it would make me just as sad. So that's why I keep it safely away."

I considered that. "But if it broke, couldn't Daddy fix it again like he did Bernadette?"

She nodded. "He could, but it wouldn't be quite the same, would it?"

I frowned and looked at the flower. Even though Daddy had been very careful and glued Bernadette back together, there was still a little piece missing from her leg that had fallen down into the floor vent and nobody could find it again. So Mama had made her a pair of long pantaloons to hide the hole. But I knew it was there, and I could still see all the cracks in her face and leg where she broke. She wasn't as pretty anymore, so I didn't love her like I used to. She wasn't my favorite anymore.

And neither was Tugger since it was _his_ fault she broke.

My eyes widened at a sudden idea. Maybe Mama wouldn't love _me_ as much anymore if I broke her flower, even by accident. The thought was so terrible that my eyes filled with tears and I buried my face in her lap. "Okay, Mama. I won't touch your flower until I'm old enough," I promised. "I don't want you to not love me anymore!"

"Silly girl, I wouldn't stop loving you over something like that," she scolded, ruffling my hair. "I would be sad if my treasure broke, but I would forgive you because I love you _much_ more than a silly flower."

"Even a _magic_ flower?" I sniffled.

"Even a magic flower." She lifted the lily from its box and made it spin between her fingers so we could both admire the way the red sunset glowed through it. "Shall I tell you a secret?" she whispered. I nodded eagerly. Mama always told the best secrets! "This lily was a gift from a childhood friend," she began, "but _you_ were a gift from your Daddy, whom I love much more than that friend. So that makes you my _most_ important treasure."

I beamed and hugged her tightly as she put the Fairy Flower back in its box and closed the lid. "Okay, kiddo, it's getting late. I think it's bath time now," she told me.

"Can I watch a movie after my bath?"

"I suppose, since it's the weekend. Which one?"

" _Labyrinth,_ " I immediately decided and she laughed at me because we both knew it was my most favorite movie ever. I could sing all the songs by memory since I'd watched it so many times, and I hoped I would be as pretty as Sarah when I grew up so maybe a faerie would fall in love with me, too.

I bounced down the hallway to the bathroom, shedding clothes on the way and ignoring Mama's demand for me to put them in the hamper instead of on the floor.

A big, rust-colored lump lay curled up beside my bedroom door, which I kept closed to keep Rum Tum Tugger out. He always used to sleep in my bed with me, but I didn't let him anymore since Bernadette's accident. But now I scooped him up and hugged him tight. He protested with a sleepy _mrrrmph_ before his big, warm body vibrated with deep purrs. "I'm sorry, Tugger," I crooned. "I know you didn't mean to break Bernadette. I forgive you, because I love you _much_ more than a silly doll." I kissed his furry head and opened my door, and he trotted right in and curled up on my bed and went back to sleep.

And I went to take my bath, feeling much better now that me and Tugger were best friends again.


	14. Thirteen

It's a quiet walk back to the castle. The Shadow King seems to sense that I want to be left alone, for he doesn't attempt to engage me in more small talk. In fact, at some point he vanishes completely and I'm so lost in thought that I don't even notice until I glance up and realize he's gone. Really, that guy is worse than a cat, I grump to myself, glaring at the glass rose I still hold. What if I have questions? What if I actually _want_ to talk? I mean, I _don't_ , but it's the principle of the thing!

After a moment of consideration, I settle on tucking the rose into my dress for safekeeping. I'm sure it looks a little ridiculous to wander around with a flower poking out over the top of my bodice, but since I don't have actual pockets, it'll have to do. I'm not even sure why I'm keeping the thing. It's a gift from _him_ , after all. But it's pretty and it feels like a waste to just throw it away. Besides, it kind of reminds me of Mom. And I know she'd be tickled that I finally have a Fairy Flower of my own. If she was here, she'd probably already be inventing stories about how I acquired it.

Whatever happened to her lily, anyway?

I try to recall the last time I'd seen the wooden box on the dresser. It's difficult; I hadn't even _remembered_ it until now, which is strange given how much I'd coveted it then. It's no good, though. I've spent too much time deliberately _not_ remembering that part of my life to recall when the Fairy Flower might've disappeared.

Surely, Dad wouldn't have given it away like he'd done with all the others. Not when he knew how much Mom treasured it. It's more likely that he put it away somewhere for safekeeping. Maybe he'd even intended to pass it to me one day, knowing how much I also treasured it. Except, like me, he'd forgotten all about it.

I continue to stroll, letting myself fall into memories for the first time in a really long time, recalling more bits and pieces of childhood that I'd deliberately kept locked in a dusty corner of my mind. It's like the Shadow King's rose had unlocked the door and now all the bittersweet memories of Mom are slowly trickling through, whether I want them to or not.

Thing is, I kind of want them to. Usually, thinking about her just makes me hurt inside. All the guilt and doubts and niggling little what-ifs appear.

 _What if_ I hadn't fallen asleep?

 _What if_ I hadn't locked the door?

_What if? What if? What if?_

But trapped in this place, this magical world, remembering all those little things I loved about her is … comforting. She would have loved it here, I realize sadly. Even with all these wild blooms and her hayfever, she would probably still go romping through them like a little kid hunting Easter eggs, allergies be damned.

After a long while I rouse myself enough to realize that I've come upon a scattering of trees that look like the outer edges of a forest. I panic briefly and glance wildly around—Exactly how far did I _wander_ out here?—then sag with relief when I glimpse the shining turrets of the castle off in the distance. I guess as long as I can see those, I'm not in too much danger of getting lost.

I turn my attention back to the forest. This doesn't look like the same one that Auri kid had lured me into. The trees aren't as big or as old as those behemoths. The smell is different, too. Not ancient and primordial and practically reeking of magic. Just the pleasant, woodsy scent that all forests carry. Most likely, this is just another part of the castle grounds. The Shadow King's property could extend for miles, for all I know. He told me not to go beyond the boundaries, but I haven't seen anything resembling the wall he'd mentioned, so I'm probably safe.

The scent of pine sap hits me and a sharp pang of homesickness hits my gut in response. Breathing deeply, I push my way through wild underbrush and enter the cool shade of the woods. It isn't a pine forest like at home, but there are evergreens mixed among other species and their scent is like a balm to my heart. I walk aimlessly and just let myself enjoy the coolness and silence. Forests are such peaceful places to relax in…

After a while, though, I notice how the landscape starts to change. The trees seem to be growing bigger. Older. A lot like the _other_ forest. They crowd closer together and their interwoven branches block most of the sunlight. They're all damp, too, as if it had rained recently. I step over an upturned root and my foot lands in a patch of wet earth with an unpleasant squelch, sinking in. I squeal with disgust and yank my foot free of the mire. Unfortunately, my slipper stays behind.

Grumbling, I bend to retrieve the shoe from the mud, wrinkling my nose when I press a hand against a wet trunk to keep my balance. The wood feels spongy against my palm, as if it soaked up so much water that it's gone permanently soft. The roots and base of the trunk are liberally coated with moldy-looking growth and the pine sap scent has been replaced with a faint swampy odor that makes my nose twitch.

Maybe I had better turn back, after all. Before I accidentally wander my way into a pool of quicksand or something.

The sound of lapping water reaches my ears. And, oddly enough, I also hear someone _humming_. A faint, low voice hums a tune that is surprisingly familiar. I freeze, startled.

Isn't that—?

Weren't Mickie and Abby singing that pop song on the way to the Lake?

Heart pounding, I shove my way forward and follow the song until the trees abruptly part and give way to a very murky pond ringed by a narrow, rocky shore. The pond itself is nearly hidden under a thicket of cattails and a thick film of green algae.

For just a second, I believe I somehow stumbled onto the pond I'd originally crawled out of when I first arrived in this world. Maybe I just discovered my one chance to escape, to dive in and swim straight back home.

But that hope quickly fades. No, this isn't the same pond. It's bigger, for one thing, and the bank isn't as steep or nearly as muddy. Besides, the Shadow King wouldn't make it that easy for me to escape. And even if I did, I'd be breaking my promise and that would make my family fair game. As long as leaving would put them in danger of the Shadow King's wrath, I'm stuck here.

I sigh in disappointment and sit down on a fallen log to rest a bit, chin propped on my hands. There are a lot of fallen trees around here, I note. As if a violent storm had once blown through and knocked them over. But with the trees cleared away, the sun can finally get through; its light casts a slick, emerald hue over the pond scum as dragonflies dance lazily above it, wings buzzing in jewel-toned flashes.

It's … kind of pretty, actually. In a sinister, gloomy sort of way. It makes me recall more snatches of childhood stories. Of water hags and naiads and nymphs that aren't nearly as friendly as some people believe. The Shadow King claims that we're the only ones in the castle, but he never specified anything about the area _around_ it.

The humming had stopped, I abruptly realize, and I'd almost forgotten why I came here in the first place. Something had _lured_ me here with that song. I draw in a deep breath and call myself all sorts of stupid as I cautiously stand and ease back toward the trees. A curse hisses between my teeth when my bare heel catches sharply on another exposed root and trips me up, making me stumble…

And that's when I notice the boy.

I jump; he'd been so still I never even saw him, but now he raises a hand to give me a friendly wave. I gape for a moment, wondering where he _came_ from. Is _he_ the one who'd been humming?

He doesn't look very old, maybe a few years younger than me. But not as young as Mickie. His smile reveals a dimple and a row of straight, pearly teeth. His features are pretty, almost delicate, but his hair is a disarray of tangled black curls that tumble over his shoulders in an unkempt, dripping mess. He must have been swimming, although who would want to swim in _that_ water is beyond me. He straddles a fallen tree half-submerged in the pond, lazily kicking his bare legs through the water. He watches me through large, dark eyes that are such an odd shade of brown, they look almost red.

I blink, wondering when I'd drifted close enough to actually see the color of his eyes, or to notice how thick and dark the surrounding lashes are. I'm so startled by his sudden appearance that it takes a few seconds for recognition to abruptly kick in. "A-Auri?" I gasp, jaw dropping. "You're Auri, right?"

I mean, I've never actually seen my sister's "friend" up close and personal, but how many black-haired wild boys can there _be_ running around this place? "You—!" I point a shaking finger at him. "This is _your_ fault! You're the reason why I'm in this mess!"

He blinks, completely innocent. "What are you talking about? We've only just met." His voice is light, but holds the slightly-deepened tones of a boy just barely on the cusp of manhood. It also holds a hint of laughter that I _know_ is aimed at me.

I glare. "We met before now and you know it!"

A sly grin curls his lips. He straightens on his log and it belatedly occurs to me that he doesn't appear to be wearing a stitch of clothing. He kicks his legs out of the water and makes a graceful hop to his feet, balancing precariously on the bobbing tree, and I hastily turn my gaze elsewhere before I see something I _really_ shouldn't. "Do you flaunt yourself like that in front of my little sister, too?" I accuse, outraged.

He snorts, a surprisingly horsey sound. "Oh, relax. I've got clothes." I can hear him rustling around and when I finally dare peek, he's pulled on a very tattered pair of what I can only assume are supposed to be pants. I'm surprised they don't slide right down his skinny hips; the makeshift belt he fashioned out of a fraying rope must be the only thing holding them up. But at least they cover the essentials.

I turn to fully face him, prepared to blast his ears to kingdom come for his role in my current predicament, but before I can get a word out he's suddenly right in my face, still smiling. My mouth works for a few seconds as I adjust to this new proximity.

"Come swim with me," he urges and takes my hand in a disturbingly strong grip. His voice sounds low and soft, like the murmur of a slow, lazy river. He smells like a sun-warmed lake, but under that I catch the faint, sour whiff of spoiled meat. Oddly familiar…

His hand is cool around mine and when he tugs gently, I try to pull away. Then our eyes meet and I'm lost, falling into deep, soft pools of mahogany. My mind grows hazy and I suddenly can't think clearly. "Come swim," he coaxes again, voice taking on an odd, rippling inflection as he urges me toward the pond. "It's a perfect day to enjoy the water, yes?"

It does sound inviting … and I _am_ a bit overheated from my long trek through the forest. I'm sure I've been walking for _hours_ by now…

"Swim with me," he urges a third time, stepping closer. His hair is cold when it brushes my face. Warm lips touch my cheek and he nips at my jaw, light and playful. I shiver, my eyes slip closed and I immediately force them open.

For just a second, his image blurs.

His coal-black curls grow long and wild. His eyes take on a bloodier hue of red and his smiling lips part to reveal rows of glistening fangs. His breath ghosts across my face again and the stench of rotten meat hits me full-force. I recoil in disgust and am startled to find shining black fur sprouting from a lower torso that has twisted out of natural shape to form the legs, hocks and sharp black hooves of an animal.

Of a _horse_.

It only lasts a moment before the glamour snaps back into place, but it's too late. The illusion is shattered and I've seen the truth. I find the strength to shove him away and stumble back against a tree, stunned. " _Isolese_ ," I gasp as I finally recognize the Shadow King's pet horse.

Only, _not_ a horse. A kelpie. A creature straight from the faerie tales, just like the Shadow King. And just as dangerous. Mom used to tell me plenty of stories about _his_ kind, too.

Isolese stares me down for a long moment before a pout touches his full lips. "Well, you've ruined it," he complains, kicking at a rock with a muddy, bare foot. Then he grins. "But I must say, I'm impressed! You broke my glamour much more easily than I expected."

I have no idea what he's talking about so I just bend to retrieve a very slimy branch at my feet and hold it in front of me. I'm not dumb enough to think I can fight off a full-grown kelpie, even if he does resemble an underfed teenager right now. But by golly, if he decides to chomp he's gonna get a mouthful of broken fangs before he gets a mouthful of _me_.

Isolese's expression holds no small amount of scorn. "Relax," he says with another horsey snort. "I have no plans to harm you. _He's_ forbidden it."

"Really? Is that why you tried to pull me into your pond just now? Planning to tenderize me a bit before chowing down?" I level my best glare at him.

"Will you blame me for following my natural instincts?" He's the very picture of innocence. Just like Jinx at her most devious.

"There's nothing _natural_ about you," I mutter, lowering my arm slightly.

The kelpie cocks his head and takes a few steps toward me. I immediately raise the stick so the end pokes him sharply in the chest, halting his progress. "Whoa there, you. That's close enough."

He has the nerve to look affronted. "Didn't I just say I won't harm you?"

"You'll forgive me if I don't believe you, I'm sure."

He chuckles. "So untrusting!"

"Right. Because I have _every_ reason to trust the word of a guy who befriended my gullible sister under false pretenses and then used her to lure me straight into the clutches of my worst nightmare."

He sniffs, crossing his arms. "It wasn't false pretenses. I quite like her! Very adventurous spirit, that one. Always thought I could scent a bit of the wildness about her, just like you. Definitely fae-touched, you are."

The stick drops until its tip touches the ground. " _What_ about my sister?"

"Fae-touched," he repeats. "Likely from what happened to her as a babe. And you, of course. Oh, but no worries. No harm will come of it. Think of it as an inoculation of sorts. You may not gain true immunity, but it'll boost your resistance to the glamour of fae tricksters." He flashes a wicked grin. "Of course, I wasn't _really_ trying just then, you know. If I'd put in actual effort, you wouldn't have seen through it that easily."

I briefly consider whacking him across the head with my stick, just to get him to stop talking nonsense. "Thanks for the honesty. Now shut up," I mutter. In truth, I'm just struggling to process everything he's telling me. I mean, he's only confirming what I already knew, that the Shadow King had changed me in some way that night. The way I look is proof enough of _that_. But I had never once considered that _Mickie_ might've changed somehow, too. Fae-touched? But … she seems so … _normal_.

"You remind me of your mother, you know. She was a cheeky brat, too. And also fae-touched, I'd wager my tail."

Now I'm startled all over again. "How did _you_ know my _mother_?" I gape at him. "Did you try to drown her, too?"

He rolls his eyes. "Lass, I've existed for longer than your limited mortal mind can fathom. We've run into each other a time or two, me and Constance."

The use of Mom's name makes me twitch. "H-how did you meet? _When_ did you meet?" A thought occurs. "Y-you didn't by chance give her an enchanted _flower_ , did you?" I tap the rose in my bodice.

The strange look he gives me answers _that_ question. Definitely no.

I rub at my temple, where I can feel the stirrings of a developing headache behind my eyes. I'm not ready to deal with the implications that Mom knew more than one faerie yet.

"She got back okay, right?" I ask.

Isolese blinks. "Who?"

"My sister!"

"Oh." A flippant wave of his hand. "Yes, yes. She's fine. That was the promise, was it not? I left her at the edge of the forest behind your little house. There were men searching for her."

"My dad? Did he find her? Did she tell him where I am? What happened?" I fire the questions eagerly, only to be met with a careless shrug.

"How should I know? She was still sleeping when I left her and I didn't stay to see what happened. I took her back, made sure she was found and left."

I sag, disappointed. Who knows how much Mickie told my father or how much she even remembers about her ordeal. Are they looking for me, too, or have they given up already? Maybe they think I drowned myself. After all, the last ones to see me were Staci and her pals when I jumped into the Lake, laughing like a loon. They probably couldn't wait to race back to town and let everyone know the crazy girl had finally gone off her rocker.

Isolese watches me, curious and unthreatening. Not at all like the carnivorous monster horse I'd met in the garden. "You … wouldn't really have _eaten_ her though, right?" I ask. "If I'd refused to trade places with her … would you have…?"

"But you didn't refuse," the kelpie points out.

"And you're avoiding the question."

Something flashes in his eyes. "If he had commanded it of me, yes."

"Even though she's your 'friend'?" When he looks away, I press, "Why do you obey him? You don't strike me as the type to go around taking orders from _anyone_."

The brief flash of a grin before he sobers. "I owe him a life debt," he admits. "My will is his to command until its payment is complete."

Now this is unexpected news. "That must really grind your gears, huh?"

His eyes narrow and I can sense I touched a nerve. "Best you be getting back to the castle now. You shouldn't wander so far. There are unsavory creatures lurking about."

"You mean like water horses that try to drown innocent maidens who are out for a walk?"

"I didn't try to drown you. Just entice you into a swim." Another cheeky grin to couple with that innocent tone.

I snort. "Liar."

"Have you forgotten your lore?" He _tsks_ and shakes his head. "Faerie _can't_ lie, remember?"

I purse my lips. "Maybe faerie just spread that rumor to trick gullible humans into trusting their word?"

"Hmmm." He rubs his chin. "An interesting theory. Maybe we did, at that."

"So can you lie or can't you?"

His dimple appears as he smiles. "Yes."

" _That's not an answer!_ " I am _seriously_ considering whacking him with the stick. He just chortles, clearly delighted to get my goat so easily. "Ugh. It's like talking to a male version of _Jinx_ ," I complain, rubbing my temple again. "Look. Before I go, can I ask _one_ favor of you? Just one."

That catches his attention. He leans forward, hands clasped behind his back. I can practically see his cute elfin ears prick with interest. "I need you to go find Mickie," I continue, "and explain to her where I am. And that I don't blame her for what happened. And I can't be there anymore, so she has to take care of Dad and tell him—" I nearly choke on an unexpected sob, quickly swallow it down. "—let him know that I'm okay and that I'm sorry and I love everyone and will miss them forever and—" Another sob sticks in my throat and luckily cuts off my babbling.

Isolese regards me for a long moment before a slender brow quirks. "And why would I wish to go to all that trouble for frivolous sentimentality?"

I push down another flare of irritation. "Because it's mostly _your fault I'm here_?" I remind him sweetly. "You _owe_ me this one."

He snorts and crosses his arms. "Do you know nothing of faerie? Every favor carries a price. What can you give in exchange for this one?"

I hesitate. I have absolutely nothing. Even the clothes on my back aren't really mine. What the heck would a kelpie want, anyway?

"I could … try to get you a supply of fresh meat from the castle or something."

"Pshaw." He waves off the suggestion with a wrinkled nose. "I can hunt my own meat. I prefer it alive and squirming, anyway." He smirks at the expression on my face. "I'll need something much more personal, I'm afraid." And he eyeballs me in a calculating manner that instantly raises gooseflesh up and down my arms. I hastily raise my stick again to ward him off. " _Forget_ it, peewee. Even for my sister there's no way you're getting _that_ outta me!"

"Get what out of you?" He gives me an odd look. "I was merely considering your hair." A sly, knowing grin curls his lips. "Why? What did _you_ think of?"

"Never mind!" The burn in my cheeks could melt rock, I'm sure of it! "A-anyway, if it's hair you want, you already got a chunk of _that_."

"Which I also left behind in the garden. Most likely, it's lining the nests of birds and squirrels by now."

"Why do you want more? You gonna eat it? Make a wig?"

A snort. "Of course not. I just think it's beautiful, the way it glows like moonlight."

I might be just the _tiniest_ bit flattered…

"So what do you intend to do with it?"

He shrugs. "I don't know yet. I'm sure I'll think of something."

"You're not gonna make a voodoo doll out of it, are you?"

He looks at me like I just started babbling in a foreign language.

"Well, how much do you want?" I clutch long strands protectively. "I am _not_ shaving my head bald."

"No need for that. Just cutting it your shoulders will do. It's quite long so there's plenty to share!"

I sigh. "Okay, then. I'll give you my hair but you _have_ to tell Mickie everything I asked. Have you got anything to cut with?"

"Of course!" And without so much as a by-your-leave, he drops his pants. I don't even have time to be scandalized before a huge, black stallion is suddenly standing right where the skinny teen had stood a second before. The transformation is instantaneous and almost spooky. No flashy light show. No magical smoke. Not even a _poof_. Just … a boy and then—in a literal blink—a horse.

"Damn." I puff a sigh and shake my head. "You faerie-types are _weird_."

Isolese snaps his teeth at me with an audible click.

I groan. "I must be out of my mind…" I gather my hair into a thick tail just below my nape and awkwardly hold it out. "Just … the _hair_ , okay? Kindly leave the hand attached."

A soft whicker and his sleek black head moves into my peripheral vision. Hot breath wafts over my face, smelling of rotten meat left out under a blazing sun in the middle of a garbage dump. " _Urgh_." I try not to gag. "Dude, no offense but you _seriously_ need a breath mint or something."

A loud snort and his head darts in. A clack of sharp teeth and the pressure on my head eases even as stinging pain unexpectedly blooms in my hand. I yelp in shock and jerk my arm away, certain to see nothing but bloody stumps in place of my fingers.

My hand is still perfectly intact, aside from a long cut that graces the side of my palm just below the pinky. It's thin and shallow but blood already slips down my wrist and soaks into the thick clump of hair clenched tightly in my fist. My jaw drops and my other hand flies up to feel the damage. I touch nothing but bare nape and the short white locks swinging across my eyes give testament to the fact that he'd nipped it _way_ past my shoulders. It now barely hangs past my chin. "You jackass!" I screech, furious. "You did that on purpose!"

A naked boy suddenly appears and snatches the shorn hair from my grip. "Next time, perhaps wait until _after_ I've chomped before choosing to insult me," he deadpans as he knots the end and drapes the length over his shoulder. "Be grateful I didn't choose to nip off a finger along with your hair."

"Not for lack of _trying_." I sourly hold up my bloodied fist.

"Oh, piff." He's completely unconcerned. "It's just a scratch. Even had I taken a finger, I'm sure it would grow back. Eventually."

I stare him down. "No. It _wouldn't_. I'm not a damned lizard!" When he just blinks at me, I huff in frustration. "You just make sure to keep your end of the deal," I grump, dabbing at the cut with my sleeve. He offers a playful salute and turns back to the pond.

"Hey, wait!" A sudden thought occurs. "Why does my sister call you Auri, anyway? Is that your name, too?"

"Oh. That." A flash of irritation. "She named me. She doesn't like _my_ name. Says it's _silly_." His face contorts into a haughty expression. "It's a perfectly noble name! But _she_ insists it sounds like a … a _triangle_."

I stare at him for a second before bursting into laughter, because that sounds _exactly_ like something Mickie would do, and also, "She isn't _wrong_ ," I manage around my chuckles.

He pouts. "Be quiet."

"Well, if it makes you feel better, it also kind of sounds like a Greek philosopher. Or one of those mythological heroes. Like Hercules!"

The scowl deepens. "Stop. Laughing."

"Isosceles of the Rancid Exhalation!"

"I'll _eat_ you."

"Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"

"We're done here." Thoroughly insulted, he spins on his heel and stomps back to the pond.

"Pleasure doing business with you!" I call cheekily as he wades in and slips under the surface with barely a ripple. Still chuckling, I turn to leave and begin the process of trying to find my way back to the castle. It's really getting late now and, besides, I've had about all the adventuring I can stomach for one day.


End file.
